His2129 Course Notes

Winter/Hiver 2008 HIS 2129 B Technology, Society and Environment Since 1800

Dr. Jean-Louis Trudel

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HIS 2129 B

History 2129:

Technology, Society and Environment since 1800 January 9-April 9, 2008 ART 026, Wednesday, 19:00-22:00

Professor: Dr. Jean-Louis Trudel Office hours: Wednesday, 14:00-16:00, Room 250, 147 Seraphin-Marion E-mail: [email protected]

Class Overview The Mandate: An examination of the role of technology in the social, economic, and environmental changes affecting industrial and "post-industrial" societies. Presentation: It is natural to take for granted the artifacts that are part of our everyday environment. Yet, to create this increasingly congenial space for human life, we have displaced or perturbed natural environments, while straining and transforming our social structures. In this course, we examine the interactions between technology, society, and the environment since 1800, with an emphasis on North American developments. We will attempt to characterize their relationships. We will also explore the contrast between technology's benefits and the price paid for them, both by those who are left behind and by the non-human world. The course aims to foster a broader view of technology within the wider context of society and of the natural world, sensitive both to its achievements and to its pitfalls. Requirements Most classes will consist of a lecture (or several) and a film. The required readings for each class are found either in the assigned book or the course reader. All of these (the lectures and films included) will be the basis for the course assignments and exams. Points may be deducted for spelling from the assignment marks (up to 10% of the total for each assignment). Students can replace two (2) of the assignments with a field report due on the same dates, based on a personal visit and a bibliography with a minimum of three published sources. Assignments must be typed, and handed within 15 minutes of the beginning of the designated course; lateness will not be accepted (at least 1 mark will be deducted). The course reader is available from Rytec Printing (404 Dalhousie). The required textbook is: Gary Cross and Rick Szostak, Technology and American Society: A History (2005) Assessment The final grade will be assessed as follows: 3 assignments, due January 30, March 12, and April 9, worth 10% each Midterm (February 13) Final Exam (April)

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Course Outline January 9: Introduction: What Is Technology? Technology is a surprisingly recent concept. Though the word's roots are ancient, it referred in the past either to a system of knowledge or the study of technics. Its appearance in the nineteenth century to refer to the practical arts taken collectively expresses the realization that the individual arts and crafts of old were spawning new ways of doing things, which shared a common set of methods, goals, and outlooks in spite of their differences. The history of technology is not only about breakthrough inventions. To be effective, most inventions must function as a part of systems. And the adoption of technological systems is made easier by the active acceptance of society at large, though we are still struggling with the ecological price that is often paid.

Film: Hoover Dam (PBS, "The American Experience", 55 min.) January 16: Guns, Bisons, and Starlings In the nineteenth century, their spread accelerated by steam-powered transportation, new species and technologies transformed North America's heartland. Firearms superseded the older hunting methods of Native Americans and Canadians. For some, such as the Metis, this was a boon that made life easier and turned the bison into an economic resource, a source of meat and pelts. However, canals and railroads then brought hunters and settlers to the central plains. As the bison population crashed and the passenger pigeon disappeared altogether, modern ranching and farming became possible.

Film: The Great Buffalo Saga (NFB, 55 min.) Readings: Leo Marx, "The Idea of Technology and Postmodern Pessimism", in Does Technology Drive History (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1994), pp. 237-258; Langdon Winner, "Do Artifacts Have Politics?", Daedalus 109, 1 (1980), pp. 121-136; Alfred W. Crosby, "Ecological Imperialism. The Overseas Migration of Western Europeans as a Biological Phenomenon", in The Ends of the Earth. Perspectives on Modern Environmental History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), pp. 103-117. January 23: Canals, Raftsmen, and Snakeheads After the opening of land for cultivation, the next great transformation of the North American landscape was wrought by canal fever. The success of the Erie Canal stimulated the building of more, down to recent years, and led to the generalized management of waterways (through dams, levees, channels) to control flooding, generate power, and facilitate commerce. The linking of once separate hydrographic basins and the access of inland waters granted to sea-going ships have had powerful effects on the natural environment (wetlands), biodiversity (alien invaders), and the exploitation of natural resources (logging).

Film: Evolving transportation systems ("Industrial Revolution", 20 min.) Readings: Cross and Szostak, Chapters 1, 2 (excerpt), 4, 6 (excerpt), pp. 1-17, 29-32, 53-67, 84-98.

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January 30:

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Railroads: An Iron and Steel Web

Railways took over where canals had left off. Freed from some of their geographical and climatic constraints, they were able to link more towns and villages. They fostered the growth of industry and became a dominant force in the workings of the agricultural sector. They also transformed the landscape in new ways. Steam locomotives required water and fuel (wood, then coal). Railway bridges had to be stronger and bigger. Cuttings, embankments, and viaducts multiplied to control the grade of railway tracks. Film: Taming the Iron Monster ("Locomotion, the amazing world of trains", 50 min.) Readings: Cross and Szostak, Chapters 6 (excerpt), 9, pp. 98-106, 139-152. February 6: The Electric Telegraph and the Telephone Less intrusive than the great transportation systems of the nineteenth century, they catered nonetheless to their needs. Railroad timetables could only be coordinated by electricity's speed. Canadian railway engineer Sandford Fleming helped to turn railroad time into world time. Another Scottish-Canadian, Alexander Graham Bell, was the first to patent a telephone. Yet, while telegraphs and telephones had down-to-earth applications (fire alarms), they also fed communicational Utopias. In 1858, the first transatlantic telegraph cable was celebrated in Ottawa by speeches and the flight of a balloon a kilometer into the air. Film: The Telephone (PBS, "The American Experience", 60 min.) Readings: Cross and Szostak, Chapters 2 (excerpts), 3, 5, pp. 18-29, 33-52, 68-83. February 13: Midterm Exam February 13: The Electrical System Electricity made transporting power easy. Previously, waterpower and steam power could only be transferred over short distances. Mills and factories were sited near sources of waterpower (hence the importance of Ottawa's Chaudiere falls). Steam engines were connected to belts, shafts, and pulleys crisscrossing factories. With electricity, motive power was delocalized. Electricity also produced light. Film: Edison's Miracle of Light (PBS, "The American Experience", 60 min.) Readings: Cross and Szostak, Chapter 11, pp. 173-188; Thomas P. Hughes, Networks of Power: Electrification in Western Society, 1880-1930 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1993), Chapter 2, pp. 18-46. February 27: From Mass Consumption to Mass Production In the second half of the nineteenth century, new technologies bring about a derealization of consumption. It is the age of commercial empires. Improved food preservation methods and the mastery of the cold chain allow for the export of beef and cereals from North and South America. The same attention to detail is then brought to bear on manufacturing as consumers a continent away increasingly dictate the behaviour of farmers and workers. Film: Stopwatch (57 min.) Readings: Cross and Szostak, Chapters 8,10, pp. 124-138, 153-172. March 5: In the Year of our Ford: The Automobile Era Inventing the automobile was easy. Building automobiles for the masses was harder and stimulated the development of the modern assembly line. The Ford system combined many improvements proposed by efficiency and mass production experts. Providing cars and trucks with fuel, with roads (eventually snow-free in Canada), and then with highways transformed the North American landscape. Cities sprawled and the air grew hazy with a new kind of smog. Films: Divided Highways (PBS, 85 min.), original Gilbreth movies Readings: Cross and Szostak, Chapters 14, 15, pp. 222-254.

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March 12: Technology in Daily Life Technology's effects are easy to recognize when species go extinct and landscapes are transformed wholesale by highways. Technology also entered our daily lives in subtler fashions, shaped in part by industrial designers and by the users themselves. Sometimes overlooked, domestic technologies have raised our expectations (running water), changed our daily habits (washing machines), and fed our pastimes (radio). The debate over technological determinism is most acute in this private sphere. Film: Playtime (excerpts) Readings: Cross and Szostak, Chapters 13,16, pp. 207-221, 255-269; Marc Olivier, "George Eastman's StoneAge Family: Snapshot Photography and the Brownie", Technology and Culture, 48, Number 1 (January 2007), pp. 1-19.

March 19: The Atomic Age In North America, the technological imagination at mid-century proposed captivating visions of the future, embodied in the 1939-1940 New York World's Fair. Many were turned into reality during the ensuing decades as planners and organization men gained increasing sway. The hopes for better living through technology even survived the shock of Hiroshima and atomic power was incorporated in North American dreams of a clean and shining Jetsons future. The menace of nuclear weapons prompted extraordinary efforts to find a silver lining: atomic cars, artificial suns, cancer-curing isotopes, radioactive farms... Films: To New Horizons (GM), Nuclear Dynamite (NFB, excerpt) Readings: Cross and Szostak, Chapters 17, 18, pp. 270-307.

March 26: Remote Control: The Information Revolution Modern electronic computers were conceived during the fevered years of World War II, though their mechanical and conceptual ancestors go back to the counting machines of the seventeenth century, the analytical engine of Babbage, and the census counter of Hollerith. The invention of the Internet was very much a Cold War story, part and parcel of the rise of the "military-industrialuniversity complex" in the wake of nuclear weapons research, though it has only come to prominence in the last couple of decades. The effects of the information revolution are still being measured. Instead of transforming the broader environment, it is affecting the structure of our daily lives. Film: Networking the Nerds ("Nerds 2.0.1, a brief history of the Internet", 60 min.) Reading: Cross and Szostak, Chapter 20, pp. 326-340.

April 2: Modern Technology and the Ecological Threshold The use of technology had environmental consequences long before the twentieth century, but the pace of technological development after World War II made them more and more visible. By 1962, Rachel Carson was able to identify the disastrous side-effects of widely used pesticides and herbicides. The modern environmental movement crystallized in the following years. Paradoxically, the exploration of alternatives to a single-minded reliance on pesticides has led to the development of genetically-modified plants whose benefits are still debated. Film: Deconstructing Supper (48 min.) Readings: Cross and Szostak, Chapters 1 2 , 1 9 , 2 1 , pp. 189-206, 308-325, 341-359; Rachel Carson, Silent Spring (Boston: Mariner Books, 2002), Chapter 7, pp. 85-102.

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April 9: Biotechnology, Old and New Without the development of new wheat varieties, the settlement of parts of Canada would have been far more difficult. Even earlier, the discovery of the Americas led to numerous biotechnology transfers resulting in the spread of many crops once native to the Americas, such as maize, tobacco, and the potato. The artificial selection of crops by pre-modern plant breeders has given us much of our food, but the ambitions of biotechnological giants are not limited to the plant kingdom. Modern biochemistry has turned the human body into a technological arena and this raises hard questions about risks, as we now live in a society dominated by risk assessment. Film: The Pill (NFB/CBC, 45 min.) or The Pill (PBS, "The American Experience", 60 min.) Reading: Ruth Schwartz Cowan, A Social History of American Technology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), Chapter 13, pp. 301-327.

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The Idea of " Technology" and Postmodern Pessimism Leo Marx

Leo Marx holds that the boundless optimism that bolstered Ike hopes of Americans until the Second World War has dissipated into "widespread social pessimism." The reasons for this change in attitude, according to Marx, are complex. They are to be found in specific technological disasters (Chernobyl and Three Mile Island), in national traumas (the Vietnam War), and more generally in a loss of faith in technology as "the driving force of progress." Marx places this change of expectations in historical context by examining the role of the mechanical arts in the progressive world view and showing how "both the character and the representation of 'technology' changed in Ike nineteenth century" from discrete, easily identifiable artifacts (such as steam engines) to abstract, scientific, and seemingly neutral systems of production and control. With its "endless reification" in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the newly refurbished concept of "technology" became invested with a "host of metaphysical properties and potencies" that invited a belief in it as an autonomous agent of social change. By mystifying technology and attributing to it powers that bordered on idolatry, mid-twentieth-century Americans set themselves up for a fall that prepared "the way for an increasingly pessimistic sense of the technological determination of history." Marx concludes that postmodernist criticism, with its ratification of "the idea of the domination of life by large technological systems," perpetuates the credibility of technological determinism.

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Postmodern Pessimism

L. Marx

The factor in the modern situation that is alien to the ancient regime is the machine technology, with its many and wide ramifications. —Thorstein Veblen (1904)' "Technological Pessimism" and Contemporary History "Technological pessimism" may be a novel term, but most of us seem to understand what it m e a n s . It surely refers to that sense of disappointment, anxiety, e v e n m e n a c e , that the idea of "technology" arouses in many people these days. But there also is something paradoxical about the implication that technology is responsible for today's growing social pessimism. T h e m o d e r n era, after all, has b e e n marked by a series of spectacular scientific and technological breakthroughs; consider the astonishing technical innovations of the last century in medicine, chemistry, aviation, electronics, atomic energy, space exploration, and genetic engineering. Isn't it o d d , then, to attribute today's widespread g l o o m to the presumed means of achieving all those advances: an abstract entity called "technology"? 2

A predictable rejoinder, of course, is that in recent decades that same entity also has been implicated in a spectacular series of disasters: Hiroshima, the nuclear arms race, the American war in Vietnam, Chernobyl, Bhopal, the E x x o n oil spill, acid rain, global warming, o z o n e depletion. Each of these was closely tied to the use or the misuse, the unforeseen consequences or the malfunctions, of relatively new and powerful science-based technologies. Even if we fully credit the technical achievements of modernity, their seemingly destructive social and ecological consequences (or side effects) have b e e n sufficiently conspicuous to account for m u c h of today's "technological pessimism." r O n e reason we are ambivalent about the effects of technology in • general is that it is difficult to be clear about the consequences of particular kinds of technical innovation. Take, for e x a m p l e , m o d e r n !

1. Thorstein Veblen, The Theory of Business Enterprise (Scribner, 1904; Mentor, 1932), p. 144. 2. I don't recall ever seeing the term in print, but I did contribute a paper, ("American Literary Culture and the Fatalistic View of Technology") to a conference on "Technology and Pessimism," sponsored by the. College of Engineering at the University of Michigan, in 1979. See Leo Marx, The Pilot and the Passenger: Essays on Literature, Technology, and Culture in tlte United States (Oxford University Press, 1988).

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advances in medicine and social hygiene. T h i s is perhaps the most widely admired realm of science-based technological advances; n o n e theless, it is often said today that those alleged advances are as m u c h a curse as a blessing. In privileged societies, to be sure, medical progress has curbed or eliminated many diseases, prolonged life, and lowered the death rate; in large parts of the underdeveloped world, however, those very achievements have set o f f a frightening and possibly catastrophic growth in the population, with all its grim ramifications. Is it any wonder, in view of the plausibility of that gloomy view, that advances in medicine may issue in pessimism as well as optimism? On reflection, however, such inconclusive assessments seem crude and ahistorical. T h e y suffer from a presentist fallacy like that which casts doubt on the results of m u c h public opinion polling. It is illusory to suppose that we can isolate for analysis the immediate, direct responses to specific innovations. Invariably people's responses to the new—to changes effected by, say, a specific technical innovation—are mediated by older attitudes. Whatever their apparent spontaneity, such responses usually prove to have been shaped by significant meanings, values, and beliefs that stem from the past. A group's responses to an instance of medical progress cannot be understood apart from the historical context, or apart from the expectations generated by the belief that m o d e r n technology is the driving force of progress. Technological Pessimism and the Progressive World Picture T h e current surge of "technological pessimism" in advanced societies is closely b o u n d up with the central place accorded to the mechanic arts in the progressive world picture. That image of reality has d o m inated Western secular thought for s o m e two and a half centuries. Its nucleus was f o r m e d around the late-eighteenth century idea that m o d e r n history itself is a record of progress. (In the cultures of modernity, conceptions of history serve a function like that served by myths of origin in traditional cultures: T h e y provide the organizing frame, or binding meta-narrative, for the entire belief system.) Much of the extravagant h o p e generated by the Enlightenment project derived from a trust in the virtually limitless expansion of new knowledge of—and thus e n h a n c e d power over—nature. At bottom this historical optimism rested u p o n a new confidence in humankind's

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capacity, as exemplified above all by Newtonian physics and the new mechanized motive power, to discover and put to use the essential order—the basic "laws"—of Nature. T h e expected result was to be a steady, continuous, cumulative improvement in all conditions of life. What requires emphasis here, however, is that advances of science and the practical arts were singled o u t as the primary, peculiarly efficacious, agent of progress. In the discourse of the educated elite of the West between 1750. and 1850, the idea of progress often seems to have been exemplified by advances in scientific knowledge; at m o r e popular levels of culture, however, progress m o r e often was exemplified by innovations in the familiar practical arts. Whereas "science" was identified with a body of certain, mathematically verifiable knowledge—abstract, intangible, and recondite—the mechanic arts were associated with the c o m m o n sense practicality of everyday artisanal life as represented by tools, instruments, or machines. N o t h i n g provided m o r e tangible, vivid, compelling icons for representing the forward course of history than recent mechanical improvements like the steam e n g i n e . 3

A recognition of the central part that the practical arts were expected to play in carrying out the progressive agenda is essential for an understanding of today's g r o w i n g sense of technological determinism—and pessimism. T h e West's dominant belief system, in fact, turned on the idea of technical innovation as a primary agent of progress. N o t h i n g in that Enlightenment world-picture prepared its adherents for the shocking series of twendeth-century disasters linked with—and often seemingly caused by—the new technologies. Quite the contrary. With the increasingly frequent occurrence of these frightening events since Hiroshima, m o r e and more people in the "advanced" societies have had to consider the possibility that the progressive agenda, with its promise of limitless growth and a continuing i m p r o v e m e n t in the conditions of life for everyone, has not been and perhaps never will be realized. T h e s u d d e n dashing of

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those long-held h o p e s surely accounts for much of today's widespread technological pessimism. All of this may be obvious, but it does not provide an adequate historical explanation. To understand why today's social pessimism is so closely b o u n d up with the idea of technology, it is necessary to recognize how both the character and the representation of "technology" ^changed in the nineteenth century. Of the two major changes, o n e was primarily material or artifactual; it had to do with the introduction of mechanical (and, later, chemical and electrical) power and with the c o n s e q u e n t development of large-scale, complex, hierarchical, centralized systems such as railroads or electric power systems. T h e second, related development was ideological; it entailed the atrophy of the Enlightenment idea of progress directed toward a m o r e just, republican society, and its gradual replacement by a politically neutral, technocratic idea of progress whose goal was the continuing i m p r o v e m e n t of technology. But the improvement of technology also c a m e to be s e e n as the chief agent of change in an increasingly deterministic view of history. U n d e r s t a n d i n g these changes is complicated, however, by the fact that the most fitting language for describing t h e m came into being as a result of, and i n d e e d largely in response to, these very c h a n g e s . T h e crucial case is that of "technology" itself. To be sure, we intuitively account for the currency of the word in its broad m o d e r n sense as an obvious reflex of the increasing proliferation, in the nineteenth century, of new and m o r e powerful machinery. But, again, that truism is not an adequate historical explanation. It reveals nothing about the preconditions—the specific conceptual or expressive needs unsatisfied by the previously existing vocabulary—that called forth this new word. Such an inquiry is not trivial, nor is it "merely" semantic. T h e genesis of this concept, as e m b o d i e d in its elusive 3

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3. Thus, Diderot's Encyclopedia, a work that epitomizes Enlightenment wisdom and optimism, is a virtual handbook of technologies, most of them of modern origin. 4. In the United States, politicians like to call the progressive agenda "the American Dream." It is worth noting that in the 1992 election campaign a stock argument of the Democrats was that the current generation may well be "the first whose children are going to be less well off than themselves."

5. As Raymond Williams famously discovered, this dilemma invariably affects efforts to interpret the cultural transformation bound up with the onset of urban industrial capitalism. His own study turned on five key words ("culture," "industry," "class," "art," and "democracy") whose modern meanings and whose currency derived from the very historical developments he was interpreting. This is, of course, the historical basis for the "hermeneutical circle," which some regard as vitiating all research in the humanities. See the preface to Williams's book Culture and Society (Columbia University Press 1960).

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prehistory, is a distinctive feature of the onset of modernity. ^Not only will it illuminate the rise of "technological pessimism," but it will help us to see that that p h e n o m e n o n , far from being a direct reflex of recent events, is an o u t c o m e of the very developments that called into being, a m o n g other salient features of modernity, the idea of "technology." The Changing Character of the "Mechanic Arts" and the Invention of "Technology" W h e n the Enlightenment project was b e i n g formulated, after 1750, the idea of "technology" in today's broad sense of the word did not yet exist. For another century, m o r e or less, the artifacts, the knowle d g e , and the practices later to be embraced by "technology" would continue to be thought of as belonging to a special branch of the arts variously k n o w n as the "mechanic" (or "practical," or "industrial," or "useful")—as distinct from the "fine" (or "high," or "creative," or "imaginative")—arts. Such terms, built with various adjectival modifiers of "art," then were the nearest available approximations of today's abstract n o u n "technology"; they referred to the knowledge and practice of the crafts. By comparison with "technology," "the practical arts" a n d its variants constituted a m o r e limited and limiting, even diminishing, category. If only because it was explicitly designated as o n e of several subordinate parts of something else, such a specialized branch of art was, as compared with the tacit uniqueness and unity of "technology," inherently belittling. Ever since antiquity, moreover, the habit of separating the practical and the fine arts had served to ratify a set of overlapping and invidious distinctions: between things and ideas, the physical and the mental, the m u n d a n e and the ideal, female and male, making and thinking, the work of enslaved and of free m e n . T h i s derogatory legacy was in s o m e measure erased, or at least masked, by the m o r e abstract, cerebral/neutral word "technology." T h e term "mechanic arts" calls to mind m e n with 6. To be sure, the prehistory of all words, perhaps especially all nouns, is elusive, for the investigator must devise ways of referring to that for which adequate names were conspicuously lacking. We need a comprehensive history of the word "technology"—a project that is, or should be, of primary concern to practitioners of that relatively new, specialized branch of historical studies, the history of technology.

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soiled hands tinkering with machines at workbenches, whereas "technology" conjures up images of clean, well-educated technicians gazing at dials, instrument panels, or computer monitors. T h e s e changes in the representation of technical practices were m a d e in response to a marked acceleration in the rate of initiating new mechanical or other devices and new ways of organizing work. D u r i n g the early phase of industrialization (ca. 1 7 8 0 - 1 8 5 0 in England, ca. 1820—1890 in the United States), the manufacturing realm h a d , b e e n represented in popular discourse by images of the latest mechanical inventions: water mill, cotton gin, power loom, spinning jenney, steam engine, steamboat, locomotive, railroad "train of cars," telegraph, factory. T h e tangible, manifestly practical character of these artifacts matched the central role as chief agent of progress accorded to instrumental rationality and its equipment. T h u s the locomotive (or "iron horse") often was invoked to symbolize the capacity of commonsensical, matter-of-fact, verifiable knowledge to harness the energies of nature. It was routinely depicted as a driving force of history. Or, put differently, these new artifacts represented the innovative m e a n s of arriving at a socially and politically defined goal. For ardent e x p o n e n t s of the rational Enlightenment, the chief goal was a m o r e just, m o r e peaceful, and less hierarchical republican society based on the consent of the governed.

As this industrial iconography suggests, the mechanic arts were widely viewed as a primary agent of social change. T h e s e icons often were invoked with metonymical import to represent an entire class of similar artifacts, such as mechanical inventions; or the replacement of w o o d by metal construction; or the displacement of h u m a n , animal, or other natural energy sources (water or wind) by engines run by mechanized motive power; or some specific, distinctive feature of the era ("the annihilation of space and time," "The A g e of Steam,"); „ or, most inclusive, that feature's general uniqueness (the "Industrial / Revolution"). T h u s , w h e n T h o m a s Carlyle a n n o u n c e d at the outset of his seminal 1829 essay "Signs of the Times" that, if asked to name the o n c o m i n g age, he w o u l d call it "The A g e of Machinery," he was not merely referring to actual, physical machines, or e v e n to the fact of their proliferation. He had in mind a radically new kind of ensemble typified by, but by no means restricted to, actual mechanical 7

7. Thomas Carlyle, Critical and Miscellaneous Essays (Bedford, Clark & Co., n.d.), Ill, pp. 5-30.

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artifacts. "Machinery," as invoked by Carlyle (and soon after by many others), had both material and ideal (mental) referents; it simultaneously referred to (1) the "mechanical philosophy," an empirical mentality associated with Descartes and Locke and with the new science, notably Newtonian physics; (2) the new practical, or industrial, arts (especially those using mechanized motive power); (3) the systematic division of labor (the workers as cogs in the productive machinery); and (4) a new kind of impersonal, hierarchical, or bureaucratic organization, all of which could be said to exhibit the power of "mechanism." Carlyle's essay is an early, eloquent testimonial to the existence of a semantic void and to the desire to fill it with a m o r e inclusive, scientistic, and distinctive conception of these new h u m a n powers than was signified by the most inclusive term then available, "the mechanic arts." D u r i n g the nineteenth century, discrete artifacts or machines were replaced, as typical e m b o d i m e n t s of the new power, by what later would c o m e to be called "technological systems." It is evident in retrospect that the steam-powered locomotive, probably the nineteenth century's leading image of progress, did not adequately represent the manifold character or the complexity of the mechanic art of transporting persons and goods by steam-powered engines moving wagons over a far-flung network of iron rails. To represent such complexity, that image of a locomotive was no m o r e adequate than the term "mechanic art." As Alfred Chandler and others have argued, the railroad probably was the first of the large-scale, complex, fullfledged technological systems. In addition to the engines and other 8

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8. For the modern concept, see Jacques Ellul, The Technological System, J. Neugroschel (Continuum, 1980); for a recent application of the concept to American history, see Thomas P. Hughes, American Genesis: A Century of Invention and Technological Enthusiasm (Viking, 1989). But some earlier social theorists who did not use the same term nonetheless anticipated most features of the concept. Few nineteenth-century thinkers devoted more attention to what we call "technology" than Karl Marx; but though he described industrial machinery as embedded in the social relations and the economic organization of an economy dominated by the flow of capital, he still relied, as late as the first (1867) edition of Capital, on "machinery," "factory mechanism," and other relics of the old mechanistic lexicon: "In manufacture the workmen are parts of a living mechanism. In the factory we have a lifeless mechanism independent of the workman, who becomes its mere living appendage." (Robert C. Tucker, ed., The Marx-Engels Reader (Norton, 1972), pp. 296-297) 9. Rosalind Williams ("Cultural Origins and Environmental Implications of

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material e q u i p m e n t (rolling stock, stations, yards, signaling devices, fuel supplies, the network of tracks), a railroad comprised a corporate organization, a large capital investment, and a great many specially trained managers, engineers, telegraphers, conductors, and mechanics. Because a railroad operated over a large geographical area, 24 hours a day, every day of the year, in all kinds of weather, it became necessary to d e v e l o p an impersonal, expert cohort of professional managers, and to replace the traditional organization of the familyo w n e d and -operated firm with that of the large-scale, centralized, hierarchical, bureaucratic corporation. B e t w e e n 1870 and 1920 such large c o m p l e x systems became a dominant e l e m e n t in the American economy. A l t h o u g h they resembled the railroad in scale, organization, and complexity, many relied on new nonmechanical forms of power. T h e y included the telegraph and t e l e p h o n e network; the new chemical industry; electric light and power grids; and such linked mass-production-and-use systems as the automobile industry (sometimes called the "American" or "Fordist" system), which involved the ancillary production of rubber tires, steel, and glass and which was further linked with the petroleum, highwayconstruction, a n d trucking industries. In the era w h e n electrical and chemical power were being introduced, and w h e n these h u g e systems were replacing discrete artifacts, simple tools, or devices as the charLarge Technological Systems," Science in Context 6 (August 1993): 75-101) argues for a much earlier origin for these systems. She traces their genesis to eighteenth-century Enlightenment philosophers like Turgot and Condorcet, who were committed to the "ideology of circulation." They identified the Enlightenment with the systemic diffusion of ideas and objects in space: ideas through global systems of communication, and objects by means of transportation (road) grids, for the circulation of people and goods. What is not dear, however, is the extent to which circulatory systems of this kind are to be thought of as specifically modern, specifically technological, innovations. After all, the Romans built similarly complex transportation and communication networks. If the point merely is that eighteenth-century theories about circulatory systems anticipated some features—especially the systemic character—of modern technologies, the argument is persuasive. But the systems described in these theories existed primarily in conceptual form, and since they involved no significant material or artifactual innovations it seems misleading to think of them as innovative "technological systems" such as the railroad was. A system is "technological," in my view, only if it includes a significant material or artifactual component. Michel Foucault, who first called attention to these theories of circulation, may have initiated this idealist mode of interpreting their significance.

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acteristic material form of the "mechanic arts," the latter term also was being replaced by a new conception: "technology." T h e advent of this typically abstract m o d e r n concept coincided with the increasing control of the American e c o n o m y by the great corporations. In Western capitalist societies, indeed, most technological systems (save for state-operated utility and military systems) were the legal property of—were organized as—-independendy o w n e d corporations for operation within the rules, and for the purposes, of minority ownership. T h u s , most of the new technological systems were operated with a view to maximizing economic growth as measured by corporate market share and profitability. At the same time, each corporation presumably was e n h a n c i n g the nation's collective wealth and power. Alan Trachtenberg has aptly called this fusion of the nation's technological, economic, and political systems "the incorporation of America." By the late nineteenth century, Thorstein Veblen, an e x p o n e n t of instrumental rationality, ruefully observed that u n d e r the regime of large-scale business enterprise the ostensible values of science-based technology (matter-of-fact rationality, efficiency, productivity, precision, conceptual parsimony) were being sacrificed to those of the minority owners: profitability, the display of conspicuous consumption, leisure-class status, and the building of private fortunes. B u t the abstract, sociologically and politically neutral (one might say neutered) w o r d "technology," with its tacit claim to 10

11

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being a distinctive, i n d e p e n d e n t m o d e of thought and practice like "science," is u n m a r k e d by a particular socio-economic regime. Although the English word "technology" (derived from the Greek I teckhne, "art" or "craft") had b e e n available since the seventeenth century, d u r i n g most of the next two centuries it had referred spe/ cifically and almost exclusively to technical discourses or treatises. In view of the way historians now routinely project the word back into the relatively r e m o t e past, it is surprising to discover how recently today's broad sense of "technology" achieved currency. It was seldom \ used before 1880. I n d e e d , the founding of the Massachusetts InstiJ tute of T e c h n o l o g y in 1861 seems to have been a landmark, a halfway station, in its history; however, the Oxford English Dictionary cites R. F. Burton's use of "technology" in 1859 to refer to the "practical arts collectively" as the earliest English instance of the inclusive m o d e r n usage. (It is important to recognize the exact nature of this change: instead of b e i n g u s e d to refer to a written work, such as a treatise, about the practical arts, "technology" now was used to refer directly to the arts—including the actual practice and practitioners— themselves.) 1

12

T h a t this broader, m o d e r n sense of "technology" was just e m e r g i n g at the middle of the nineteenth century is further indicated by the fact that Karl M a r x and Arnold Toynbee, w h o were deeply c o n cerned about the changes effected by the new machine power, d i d not use the word. At points in his influential lectures on the Industrial Revolution ( c o m p o s e d in 1 8 8 0 - 8 1 ) where "technology" would have been apposite, T o y n b e e , an economic historian, relied on other terms: "mechanical discoveries," "machinery," "mechanical improvements," "mechanical inventions," "factory system." Yet within 20 13

10. In explaining the origin of the modern style of corporate management, Alfred D. Chandler describes it has having been "demanded" by the "technological" character of the railroad system. Mechanical complexity, and the consequent need for immense capital investment, were key factors in calling forth a new kind of organization and management. What requires emphasis here, however, is that the effective agent of change in Chandler's widely accepted analysis—the chief cause of the shift, as representative of the technical, from single artifact to system—is the radically new material, or artifactual, character of the railroad. (See Chandler, The Visible Hand: The Managerial Revolution in American Business (Harvard University Press, 1977), p. 87ff. and passim.) Historians differ in their accounts of the genesis of the new systems. Thomas Hughes, in American Genesis (Viking, 1989) emphasizes changes in modes of organization and management (p. 184ff.), whereas Chandler (whose example, the railroad, belongs to the earlier mechanical phase) emphasizes a material or artifactual change, especially from mechanical to electrical and chemical process.

12. The OED gives 1615 as the date of the word's first use in English, meaning a discourse or treatise on the arts. See "Technology" in the 1955 Shorter Oxford English Dictionary. A Harvard professor, Jacob Bigelow, has been credited with anticipating the modern meaning of the word in his 1829 book Elements of Technology, Taken Chiefly from a Course of Lectures . . . on the Application of the Sciences to the Useful Arts. (See Dirk J. Struik, Yankee Science in the Making (Little, Brown, 1948), pp. 169-170.) Although the scope of the word's meaning has expanded steadily, my impression is that its current meaning retains its essential etymological links to the practical arts and the material world.

11. Alan Trachtenberg, The Incorporation of America (Hill and Wang, 1982).

14. Arnold Toynbee, The Industrial Revolution (Beacon, I960), esp. pp. 63—

14

13. On Marx's technological vocabulary, see note 8 above.

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years Veblen would be suggesting that the "machine technology" was the distinguishing feature of m o d e r n i t y . My impression is, however, that "technology" in today's singular, inclusive sense did not gain truly wide currency until after World War I, and perhaps not until the Great Depression. 15

T h e advent of "technology" as the accepted n a m e for the realm of the instrumental had many ramifications. Its relative abstractness, as compared with "the mechanic arts," had a kind of refining, idealizing, or purifying effect u p o n our increasingly elaborate contrivances for manipulating the object world, thereby protecting them from Weste r n culture's ancient fear of contamination by physicality and work. An aura of impartial cerebration and rational detachment replaced the sensory associations that formerly had bound the mechanic arts to everyday life, artisanal skills, tools, work, and the egalitarian ethos of the early republic. In recognizing the mastery of various technologies as a legitimate pursuit of higher learning, the universities ratified that shift from the craft ethos of the mechanic arts to the meritocratic aspirations of the engineering and m a n a g e m e n t professions. T h e lack of sensuous specificity attached to the n o u n "technology," its bloodless generality, and its c o m m o n use in the m o r e generalized singular form make the word conducive to a range of reference far beyond that available to the h u m d r u m particularities of "the mechanic arts" or "the industrial arts." T h o s e concrete categories could not simultaneously represent (as either "technology" or, say, "computer technology" can and does) a particular kind of device, a specialized form of theoretical k n o w l e d g e or expertise, a distinctive - mental style, and a unique set of skills and practices.

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Perhaps the crucial difference is that the concept of "technology," with its wider scope of reference, is less closely identified with—or defined by—its material or artifactual aspect than was "the mechanic = arts." T h i s fact comports with the material reality of the large and complex new technological systems, in which the boundary between the intricately interlinked artifactual and other c o m p o n e n t s — c o n c e p tual, institutional, h u m a n — i s blurred and often invisible. W h e n we refer to such systems, as compared with, say, carpentry, pottery, glassmaking, or machine-tool operating, the artifactual aspect is a relatively small part of what c o m e s before the mind. By virtue of its abstractness and inclusiveness, and its capacity to evoke the inextricable interpenetration of (for example) the powers of the c o m p u t e r with the bureaucratic practices of large m o d e r n institutions, "technology" (with no specifying adjective) invites endless reification. T h e concept refers to no specifiable institution, nor d o e s it evoke any distinct associations of place or of persons belonging to any particular ( nation, ethnic g r o u p , race, class, or gender. A c o m m o n tendency of contemporary discourse, accordingly, is to invest "technology" with a host of metaphysical properties and potencies, thereby making it seem to be a determinate entity, a disembodied a u t o n o m o u s causal agent of social c h a n g e — o f history. H e n c e the illusion that technology drives history. Of all its attributes, this hospitality to mystification— to technological determinism—may well be the o n e that has contributed most to p o s t m o d e r n pessimism.

From the Republican to the Technocratic Idea of Progress

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66. Toynhee was not timid about using new or unconventional terminology, and indeed these lectures were extremely influential in giving currency to the still-novel concept of an "industrial revolution." As late as the eleventh (1911) edition, the Encyclopaedia Brilannica, which contained no separate entry on "technology," was still offering "technological" as a possible alternative to the preferred "technical" in the entry for "Technical Education" (volume 26, p. 487). 15. See note 1 above. Among other obvious indications that the concept was then in its early, avant-garde stage of development is the way unconventional writers and artists of the period—Herman Melville, Henry Adams, and Oswald Spengler, or the Italian Futurists and Cubists, or (in the next generation) Hart Crane and Charlie Chaplin—used technological images to characterize the distinctiveness of modernity. 16. It is instructive to notice how few of the commonplace statements made

f

As the first c o m p l e x technological systems were being assembled, and as the new c o n c e p t of technology was being constructed, a related change was occurring within the ideology of progress. It entailed a subtle redescription of the historical role of the practical arts. Originally, as conceived by such e x p o n e n t s of the radical Enlightenment as Turgot, Condorcet, Paine, Priestley, Franklin, and Jefferson, innovations in science a n d in the mechanic arts were regarded as necessary yet necessarily insufficient means of achieving general p r o g r e s s . To 17

nowadays about the import of "technology" actually are applicable to the entire range of existing technologies—medical, military, electronic, domestic, biogenetic, contraceptive, etc. 17. Notice the two distinct uses of "progress" here, each with a markedly

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the republican revolutionaries of the Enlightenment (especially the radical philosopkes), science and the practical arts were instruments of political liberation—tools for arriving at the ideal goal of progress: a m o r e just, m o r e peaceful, and less hierarchical republican society based on the consent of the g o v e r n e d . T h e idea of history as a record of progress driven by the application of science-based knowledge was not simply another idea a m o n g many. Rather it was a figurative concept l o d g e d at the center of what became, s o m e t i m e after 1750, the dominant secular world-picture of Western culture. T h a t it was no mere rationale for domination by a privileged bourgeoisie is suggested by the fact that it was as fondly embraced by the hostile critics as by the ardent e x p o n e n t s of industrial capitalism. Marx and Engels, who developed the most systematic, influential, politically sophisticated critique of that regime, were deeply committed to the idea that history is a record of cumulative progress. In their view, the critical factor in h u m a n d e v e l o p m e n t — the counterpart in h u m a n history of Darwinian natural selection in natural history—is the m o r e or less continuous growth of humanity's productive capacity. B u t of course they added a political stipulation, namely that the proletariat would have to seize state power by revolution if humanity was to realize the universal promise inherent in its growing power over nature. To later followers of Marx and Engels, the most apt n a m e of that power leading to c o m m u n i s m , the political goal of progress—of history—is "technology." 18

19

But the advent of the concept of technology, and of the organization of c o m p l e x technological systems, coincided with, and no doubt different scope of reference: (1) the bounded, internal, verifiable, kind of improvement achievable within a particular practice, such as progress in mathematics, physics, medicine, overland transportation, or textile production; the cumulative effect of such manifold kinds of progress doubtless created the conditions for using the word with a much larger scope of reference: (2) a general improvement in the conditions of life for all of humanity, hence a presumed attribute of the course of events—of history itself. 18. I have summarized this unoriginal interpretation in somewhat greater detail in "Does Improved Technology Mean Progress?" Technology Review (January 1987): 3 3 - 7 1 . 19. G. M. Cohen, in Karl Marx's Theory of History (Clarendon, 1978), makes a strong case for the view that Marx's conception of history was essentially a version of technological determinism.

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contributed to, a subtle revision of the ideology of progress. T e c h nology now took on a m u c h grander role in the larger historical scheme—grander, that is, than the role that originally had b e e n assigned to the practical arts. To leaders of the radical Enlightenment like Jefferson and Franklin, the chief value of those arts was in providing the material m e a n s of accomplishing what really mattered: the building of a just, republican society. After the successful bourgeois revolutions, however, many citizens, especially the merchants, industrialists, and other relatively privileged people (predominantly white and male, of course), took the new society's ability to reach that political goal for granted. T h e y assumed, not implausibly from their vantages, that the goal already was within relatively easy reach. What now was important, especially from an entrepreneurial viewpoint, was perfecting the m e a n s . But the growing scope and integration of the new systems m a d e it increasingly difficult to distinguish between the material (artifactual or technical) and the other organizational (managerial or financial) c o m p o n e n t s of "technology." At this time, accordingly, the simple republican formula for generating progress by directing improved technical means to societal e n d s was imperceptibly transformed into a quite different technocratic c o m m i t m e n t to improving "technology" as the basis and the measure of—as all but constituting—the progress of society. T h i s technocratic idea may be seen as an ultimate, culminating expression of the optimistic, universalist aspirations of Enlightenment rationalism. But it tacitly replaced political aspirations with technical innovation as a primary agent of change, thereby preparing the way for an increasingly pessimistic sense of the technological determination of history. T h e cultural m o d e r n i s m of the West in the early twentieth century was permeated by this technocratic spirit. (A distinctive feature of the technocratic mentality is its seemingly boundless, unrestricted, expansive scope—its tendency to break through the p r e s u m e d boundaries of the instrumental and to dominate any kind of practice.) T h e technocratic spirit was m a d e manifest in the application of the principles of instrumental rationality, efficiency, order, and control to the behavior of industrial workers. As set forth in the early-twentieth-century theories of Taylorism and Fordism, the standards of efficiency devised for the functioning of parts within machines were applied to the m o v e m e n t s of workers in the new large-scale factory system. T h e technocratic spirit also was carried into the "fine" arts by avant-garde practitioners of various radically innovative styles

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associated with early modernism. T h e credo of the Italian Futurists; the v o g u e of geometric abstractionism exemplified by the work of Mondrian and the exponents of "Machine Art"; the doctrines of the Precisionists a n d the Constructivists; the celebration of technological functionalism in architecture by Le Corbusier, Mies Van der Rohe, and other e x p o n e n t s of the international style—all these tendencies exemplified the permeation of the culture of modernity by a kind of technocratic utopianism. Architecture, with its disdncdve m e r g i n g of the aesthetic and the practical, provides a particularly compelling insight into the m o d e r n marriage of culture and technology. T h e International Style featured the use, as building materials, of such unique products of advanced technologies as steel, glass, and reinforced concrete; new technologies also m a d e it possible to construct stripped-down, spare buildings whose functioning d e p e n d e d on still other innovative devices (the i

elevator, the subway system, air conditioning). This minimalist, functional style of architecture anticipated many features of what probably is the quintessential fantasy of a technocratic paradise: the popular science-fiction vision of life in a spaceship far from Earth, where recycling eliminates all d e p e n d e n c e on organic processes and

\ where the self-contained environment is completely under h u m a n V control. Postmodern Pessimism Let us return now to our initial quesdon: how to understand the current surge of technological pessimism. O n e way to account for the collective despondency, I have suggested, is to chart the advent of the abstract n o u n that names a quintessentially m o d e r n class: "technology." T h e point is that the idea of a class called "technology," in its ideological inheritance from the practical arts, was suffused from its inception by the extravagant universalist social hopes of the Enlightenment. T h o s e hopes were g r o u n d e d in what postmodernist skeptics like to call "foundationalism": a faith in the h u m a n capacity to gain access to a permanent, timeless foundation for objective, context-free, certain knowledge. T h e stunning advances of Western science and the practical arts s e e m e d to confirm that epistemological faith, and with it a corresponding belief that henceforth the course of history necessarily would lead to e n h a n c e d h u m a n well-being.

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In their euphoric embrace of that faith, the Utopian thinkers of the Enlightenment invented a historical romance called Progress. In it they assigned a heroic role to the mechanic arts. T h a t role, like the romance as a whole, rested on the old foundationalist faith in the capacity of scientific rationalism to yield incontrovertible knowledge. But the part assigned to the mechanic arts in those early years, though heroic, actually was m o d e s t compared with what it became once it had b e e n r e n a m e d "technology." By the 1920s "technology," no longer confined to its limited role as a mere practical means in the service of political e n d s , was b e c o m i n g a flamboyant, overwhelming presence. In many modernist, technocratic interpretations of the romance, "technology" so dominated the action as to put most other players in the wings; in the final act, a happy e n d i n g confirmed the vaunted power of technology to realize the dream of Progress. In the aftermath of World War II, however, what had b e e n a dissident minority's disenchantment with this overreaching h e r o spread to large segments of the population. As the visible effects of technology became m o r e d u b i o u s , m o d e r n i s m lost its verve and people f o u n d the romance less and less appealing. After the Vietnam era, the ruling theme of Progress c a m e to seem too fantastic, and admirers of the old Enlightenment r o m a n c e now were drawn to a new kind of postm o d e r n tragicomedy. Postmodernism is the n a m e given to a sensibility, style, or amorphous viewpoint—a collective m o o d — m a d e manifest in the early 1970s. As the n a m e suggests, o n e of its initial modves was a repudiation of the earlier, modernist style in the arts, and a consequent effort to define—and to become—its successor. T h e successionist aspect of postmodernism was m a d e clear early on by a series of s u d d e n , sharp attacks on m o d e r n architecture, probably the most widely recognized of all styles of aesthetic modernism. As early as 1962, in his seminal essay "The Case Against 'Modern Architecture,'" Lewis Mumford, a leading architectural critic and an e x p o n e n t of early modernism, anticipated many t h e m e s of that postmodernist reaction. Most significant here was his analysis of the sources of modernism, an architectural style he traced to a set of preconceptions about the historic role of technology. Chief a m o n g them, he wrote, was "the belief in mechanical progress as an e n d in itself," a belief that rested on the assumption that h u m a n improvement would occur "almost automatically" if we w o u l d simply devote all o u r energies to science and

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t e c h n o l o g y . As in most of his work, h e r e Mumford's disapproval was not directed at technology in any narrow or intrinsic sense, not at the m e r e technical or artifactual aspect of modernity, but rather at the larger ideological context; put differently, he was aiming at the imperial domination of architectural practice by the overreaching of the technocratic mentality, whereby the technical means, u n d e r the guise of a functionalist style, had b e c o m e indistinguishable f r o m — a n d in fact determined—all other aspects of building practice. His target, in s u m , was the dominating role of the instrumental in the later, technocratic version of the progressive ideology—a version characteristic of the era of corporate capitalism. In making this argument, Mumford allied himself with a dissident minority of writers, artists, and intellectuals w h o had o p p o s e d the technocratic idea of progress for a long time. T h e y were adherents, indeed, of a continuously critical, intermittently powerful adversary culture that can be traced back to the "romantic reaction" against the eighteenth-century scientific and industrial revolutions. But the cultural dissidents did not a b a n d o n the Enlightenment c o m m i t m e n t to the practical arts; what they rejected was the skewed technocratic reinterpretation of that commitment. What they, like Mumford, f o u n d most objectionable was the tendency to bypass moral and political goals by treating advances in the technical means as e n d s in themselves. N o w h e r e was this criticism m a d e with greater precision, economy, or wit than in H e n r y David Thoreau's sardonic redescription of the era's boasted m o d e r n improvements: "They are but improved m e a n s to an u n i m p r o v e d end." S o , too, H e r m a n Melville identified a d e e p psychic root of this warped outlook w h e n he allowed A h a b , the technically c o m p e t e n t but morally incapacitated captain of t h e Pequod, a s t u n n i n g insight into his o w n pathological behavior: "Now, in his heart, A h a b had s o m e glimpse of this, namely: all my m e a n s are sane, my motive a n d my object m a d . " As the history of t h e twentieth century has confirmed, h i g h technical skills may serve to mask, or to displace attention from, t h e choice of e n d s . If, as in 21

20. Donald L. Miller, ed., The Lewis Mumford Reader (Pantheon, 1986), p. 75. The essay, which first appeared in Architectural Record (131, no. 4 (1962): 155-162), anticipated Robert Venturi's influential 1966 manifesto for postmodernism, Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture. 21. See Walden, chapter 1; Moby-Dick, chapter 41; The Writings of Thoreau (Modern Library, 1949), p. 49; Moby-Dick (Norton, 1967), p. 161.

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Ahab's case, t h e e n d s are d e f o r m e d , amoral, and irrational, such a disjunction of m e a n s and e n d s becomes particularly risky. T h i s kind of flawed technocratic mentality later became a major target of the radical m o v e m e n t and the counterculture of the 1960s. In retrospect, i n d e e d , that astonishing burst of political outrage looks like a last desperate gasp of Enlightenment idealism. It was an attempt to put technology back into the service of moral and political ends. It is important, if we are to understand the genesis of post. modernism, to recognize that it appeared immediately after the events of May 1968, j u s t as the ardent cultural radicalism of the Vietnam era was collapsing in frustration and disillusionment. T h u s , postmodernism e m b o d i e d , from its birth, a strong current of technological p e s s i m i s m . It was a pessimism w h o s e distinctive tenor derived from t h e adversary culture's inability, for all its astonishing success in mobilizing t h e protest movements of the 1960s, to define and sustain an effective anti-technocratic program of political action. 82

In conclusion, let me suggest two ways of looking at the technological aspect of p o s t m o d e r n pessimism. For those w h o continue to adhere to the promise of Enlightenment rationalism, the postmodernist repudiation of that optimistic philosophy is b o u n d to seem pessimistic. Postmodernism not only rejects the romance of Progress; it rejects all meta-narratives that ostensibly e m b o d y sweeping interpretations of history. For those w h o are drawn to the philosophic skepticism of the postmodernists, however, the repudiation of s o m e of the political h o p e s that ultimately rested on foundationalist metaphysical assumptions n e e d not be taken as wholly pessimistic. A l t h o u g h such a repudiation surely entails a diminished sense of h u m a n possibilities, t h e replacement of the impossibly extravagant 22. American postmodernism is, in my view, most persuasively and attractively represented in the work of Richard Rorty, but he too is more compelling in his skeptical critique of the philosophical mainstream than in his murky anti-realist epistemology. See, esp., Consequences of Pragmatism (University of Minnesota Press, 1982), and Contingency, Irony, and Solidarity (Cambridge University Press, 1989). For an acute assessment of the political weaknesses inherent in this outlook, see Christopher Norris, What's Wrong with Postmodernism, Critical Theory and the Ends of Philosophy (Johns Hopkins University Press, 1990). There have been many efforts to define postmodernism, but perhaps the anti-Enlightenment aspect important here is most clearly set forth by David Harvey (The Condition of Postmodernity (Blackwell, 1980)) and Jean-Francois Lyotard (The Postmodern Condition (University of Minnesota Press, 1984)).

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hopes that had for so l o n g been attached to the idea of "technology" by m o r e plausible, realistic aspiradons may, in the long run, be cause for optimism. But the second way of looking at the role of technology in postmodernist thinking is m u c h less encouraging. What many postmodernist theorists often propose in rejecting the old illusion of historical progress is a redescription of social reality that proves to be even more technocratic than the distorted Enlightenment ideology they reject. Much early postmodernist theorizing took off from a host of speculative notions about the appearance of a wholly u n p r e c e d e n t e d kind of society, variously called "post-Enlightenment," "post-Marxist," "post-industrial," or "post-historic." A c o m m o n feature of these theories—and of the umbrella concept, postmodernism—is the decisive role accorded to the n e w electronic communications technologies. T h e information or k n o w l e d g e they are able to generate and to disseminate is said to constitute a distinctively postmodern and increasingly d o m i n a n t form of capital, a "force of production," and, in effect, a new, dematerialized kind of power. This allegedly is the age of knowledge-based economies. T h e r e are strikingly close affinities between the bold new conceptions of power favored by influential postmodern theorists—I am thinking of Jean-Francois Lyotard and Michel Foucault—and the functioning of large technological s y s t e m s . Power, as defined by these theories, is dynamic and fluid. Always being m o v e d , e x c h a n g e d , or transferred, it flows endlessly t h r o u g h society arid culture the way blood flows through a circulatory system or information through a communications network. In contrast with the old notion of entrenched power that can be attacked, removed, or replaced, postmodernists envisage forms of power that have no central, single, fixed, discernible, controllable locus. This kind of power is everywhere but nowhere. It typically develops from below, at the lower, local levels, rather than by diffusion from centralized places on high. T h e best way to understand it, then, is by an ascending analysis that initially focuses on its micro, or capillary, manifestations. T h e most compelling analogy is with the forthcoming m o d e of fiber-optic c o m munications, an electronic system that is expected to link all tele23

23. Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition and Le Differends (University of Minnesota Press, 1984); Michel Foucault, Power/Knowledge (Pantheon, 1972).

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phonic, television, and c o m p u t e r transmission and reception, and all major databanks, in a single national (and eventually global) network. This outlook ratifies the idea of the domination of life by large technological systems, by default if not by design. T h e accompanying m o o d varies from a sense of pleasurably self-abnegating acquiescence in the inevitable to melancholy resignation or fatalism. In any event, it reflects a further increase in the difficulty, noted earlier, of discerning the boundary between what traditionally had been considered "technology," (the material or artifactual armature, which may be a network of filaments) and the other socio-economic and cultural c o m p o n e n t s of these large c o m p l e x systems. In many respects postmodernism seems to be a perpetuation of—and an acquiescence i n — the continuous aggrandizement of "technology" in its modern, institutionalized, systemic guises. In their hostility to ideologies and collective belief systems, moreover, many postmodernist thinkers relinquish all old-fashioned notions of putting the new systems into the service of a larger political vision of h u m a n possibilities. In their view, such visions are inherently dangerous, proto-totalitarian, and to be avoided at all costs. T h e pessimistic tenor of postmodernism follows from this inevitably diminished sense of h u m a n agency. If we entertain the vision of a postmodern society dominated by immense, overlapping, quasi-autonomous technological systems, and if the society must s o m e h o w integrate the operation of those systems, becoming in the process a meta-system of systems u p o n whose continuing ability to function our lives d e p e n d , then the idea of postmodern technological pessimism makes sense. It is a fatalistic pessimism, an ambivalent tribute to the determinative power of technology. But again, the "technology" in question is so deeply e m b e d d e d in other aspects of society that it is all but impossible to separate it from them. U n d e r the circumstances, it might be well to acknowledge how consoling it is to attribute our pessimism to the workings of so elusive an agent o f change. 24

24. This is not true of all postmodern theorists. Rorty reaffirms a traditional liberal perspective, though one whose capacity to provide a theoretical basis for the control of technologically sophisticated multi-national corporations is . extremely uncertain.

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Do Artifacts Have Politics?

there is n o idea m o r e provocative t h a n the n o t i o n that technical things have political qualities. At issue is the claim that the m a c h i n e s , structures, and s y s t e m s of m o d e r n material culture c a n b e a c c u r a t e l y j u d g e d n o t o n l y for t h e i r c o n t r i b u t i o n s o f e f f i c i e n c y a n d p r o ductivity, n o t m e r e l y for their positive a n d negative e n v i r o n m e n t a l side effects, b u t also for t h e w a y s i n w h i c h t h e y c a n e m b o d y s p e c i f i c f o r m s o f p o w e r a n d authority. Since ideas of this kind have a persistent and troubling presence in discussions about the m e a n i n g of technology, they deserve explicit attention. W r i t i n g i n Technology and Culture a l m o s t t w o d e c a d e s a g o , L e w i s M u m f o r d gave classic s t a t e m e n t t o o n e v e r s i o n o f the t h e m e , a r g u i n g that "from late n e o lithic t i m e s i n t h e N e a r E a s t , r i g h t d o w n t o o u r o w n d a y , t w o t e c h n o l o g i e s h a v e recurrently existed side by side: one authoritarian, the other democratic, the first system-centered, i m m e n s e l y powerful, but inherently unstable, the other man-centered, relatively weak, but resourceful and durable." T h i s thesis stands at the heart of M u m f o r d ' s studies of the city, architecture, and the history of t e c h n i c s , a n d mirrors c o n c e r n s voiced earlier in the w o r k s of Peter Kropotkin, W i l l i a m M o r r i s , a n d other nineteenth c e n t u r y critics of industrialism. M o r e recently, antinuclear and prosolar energy m o v e m e n t s in Europe and America have a d o p t e d a similar n o t i o n as a centerpiece in their a r g u m e n t s . Thus environmentalist Denis H a y e s concludes, "The increased deployment of nuclear p o w e r facilities m u s t lead society t o w a r d authoritarianism. I n d e e d , safe reliance u p o n n u c l e a r p o w e r a s t h e principal source o f e n e r g y m a y b e p o s s i b l e only in a totalitarian state." E c h o i n g the v i e w s of m a n y proponents of appropriate t e c h n o l o g y a n d t h e s o f t e n e r g y p a t h , H a y e s c o n t e n d s t h a t " d i s p e r s e d s o l a r sources are m o r e c o m p a t i b l e t h a n centralized t e c h n o l o g i e s w i t h social e q u i t y , freedom and cultural pluralism." An e a g e r n e s s to interpret t e c h n i c a l artifacts in political l a n g u a g e is by no means the exclusive property of critics of large-scale h i g h - t e c h n o l o g y s y s t e m s . A long lineage of boosters have insisted that the "biggest and best" that science and i n d u s t r y m a d e a v a i l a b l e w e r e t h e b e s t g u a r a n t e e s o f d e m o c r a c y , f r e e d o m , and social justice. T h e factory s y s t e m , a u t o m o b i l e , t e l e p h o n e , radio, television, t h e s p a c e p r o g r a m , a n d o f c o u r s e n u c l e a r p o w e r i t s e l f h a v e all a t o n e t i m e o r another b e e n described as democratizing, liberating forces. D a v i d Lilienthal, in T.V.A.: Democracy on the March, f o r e x a m p l e , f o u n d t h i s p r o m i s e in t h e p h o s I N CONTROVERSIES A B O U T TECHNOLOGY A N D SOCIETY,

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p h a t e fertilizers a n d electricity that technical p r o g r e s s w a s b r i n g i n g t o rural A m e r i c a n s d u r i n g t h e 1 9 4 0 s . In a r e c e n t e s s a y , The Republic of Technology, D a n i e l B o o r s t i n e x t o l l e d t e l e v i s i o n for "its p o w e r t o d i s b a n d a r m i e s , t o cashier presidents, to create a w h o l e n e w democratic world —democratic in w a y s never before i m a g i n e d , e v e n in A m e r i c a . " S c a r c e l y a n e w i n v e n t i o n c o m e s a l o n g that s o m e o n e d o e s not p r o c l a i m it t h e salvation of a free society. It is no surprise to learn that t e c h n i c a l s y s t e m s of v a r i o u s k i n d s are d e e p l y i n t e r w o v e n in the conditions of m o d e r n politics. T h e physical arrangements of industrial p r o d u c t i o n , w a r f a r e , c o m m u n i c a t i o n s , a n d t h e like h a v e f u n d a m e n tally c h a n g e d the exercise of p o w e r a n d the e x p e r i e n c e of citizenship. B u t to go b e y o n d t h i s o b v i o u s f a c t a n d t o a r g u e t h a t c e r t a i n t e c h n o l o g i e s i n themselves h a v e p o l i t i c a l p r o p e r t i e s s e e m s , a t first g l a n c e , c o m p l e t e l y m i s t a k e n . W e all k n o w that people have politics, not things. To discover either virtues or evils in aggregates of steel, plastic, transistors, integrated circuits, and chemicals s e e m s just plain w r o n g , a w a y o f m y s t i f y i n g h u m a n artifice a n d o f a v o i d i n g t h e true sources, the h u m a n sources of f r e e d o m and oppression, justice and injustice. Blaming the hardware appears e v e n m o r e foolish than b l a m i n g the victims w h e n i t c o m e s t o j u d g i n g c o n d i t i o n s o f p u b l i c life. H e n c e , t h e s t e r n a d v i c e c o m m o n l y g i v e n t h o s e w h o flirt w i t h t h e n o t i o n t h a t t e c h n i c a l a r t i f a c t s h a v e p o l i t i c a l q u a l i t i e s : W h a t m a t t e r s i s n o t t e c h n o l o g y itself, but the social or e c o n o m i c s y s t e m in w h i c h it is e m b e d d e d . T h i s m a x i m , w h i c h in a n u m b e r of variations is the central p r e m i s e of a t h e o r y that can be called the social d e t e r m i n a t i o n of t e c h n o l o g y , has an o b v i o u s w i s d o m . It serves as a needed corrective to those w h o focus uncritically on s u c h things as "the c o m p u t e r a n d i t s s o c i a l i m p a c t s " b u t w h o fail t o l o o k b e h i n d t e c h n i c a l t h i n g s t o n o t i c e the social c i r c u m s t a n c e s o f their d e v e l o p m e n t , d e p l o y m e n t , a n d use. T h i s v i e w provides an antidote to naive technological d e t e r m i n i s m — t h e idea that techn o l o g y develops as the sole result of an internal d y n a m i c , a n d then, u n m e d i a t e d b y a n y o t h e r i n f l u e n c e , m o l d s s o c i e t y t o fit its p a t t e r n s . T h o s e w h o h a v e n o t recognized the w a y s i n w h i c h t e c h n o l o g i e s are s h a p e d b y social and e c o n o m i c f o r c e s h a v e n o t g o t t e n v e r y far. B u t t h e c o r r e c t i v e h a s its o w n s h o r t c o m i n g s ; t a k e n l i t e r a l l y , i t s u g g e s t s t h a t t e c h n i c a l things d o n o t m a t t e r a t all. O n c e o n e h a s d o n e t h e d e t e c t i v e w o r k necessary to reveal t h e social o r i g i n s — p o w e r holders b e h i n d a particular instance of technological c h a n g e — o n e will have explained everything of importance. T h i s c o n c l u s i o n offers c o m f o r t to social scientists: it validates w h a t t h e y had always suspected, namely, that there is nothing distinctive about the study o f t e c h n o l o g y i n t h e first p l a c e . H e n c e , t h e y c a n r e t u r n t o t h e i r s t a n d a r d m o d e l s of social p o w e r — t h o s e of interest g r o u p politics, bureaucratic politics, Marxist m o d e l s of class struggle, and the l i k e — a n d have e v e r y t h i n g t h e y n e e d . T h e s o c i a l d e t e r m i n a t i o n o f t e c h n o l o g y is, i n t h i s v i e w , e s s e n t i a l l y n o d i f f e r e n t f r o m t h e s o c i a l d e t e r m i n a t i o n of, s a y , w e l f a r e p o l i c y o r t a x a t i o n . T h e r e are, h o w e v e r , g o o d r e a s o n s t e c h n o l o g y has of late t a k e n on a special f a s c i n a t i o n i n its o w n r i g h t f o r h i s t o r i a n s , p h i l o s o p h e r s , a n d p o l i t i c a l s c i e n t i s t s ; g o o d r e a s o n s t h e s t a n d a r d m o d e l s o f s o c i a l s c i e n c e o n l y g o s o far i n a c c o u n t i n g for w h a t i s m o s t i n t e r e s t i n g a n d t r o u b l e s o m e a b o u t t h e s u b j e c t . I n another place I have tried to s h o w w h y so m u c h of m o d e r n social and political thought contains recurring statements of w h a t can be called a theory of tech4

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nological politics, an o d d mongrel of notions often crossbred w i t h orthodox liberal, conservative, and socialist p h i l o s o p h i e s . T h e t h e o r y o f technological politics draws attention to the m o m e n t u m of large-scale sociotechnical s y s t e m s , to the response of m o d e r n societies to certain technological imperatives, and to t h e all t o o c o m m o n s i g n s o f t h e a d a p t a t i o n o f h u m a n e n d s t o t e c h n i c a l m e a n s . I n so d o i n g it offers a novel f r a m e w o r k of interpretation a n d e x p l a n a t i o n for s o m e of the more puzzling patterns that have taken shape in and around the g r o w t h of m o d e r n material culture. O n e s t r e n g t h of this point of v i e w is that it takes technical artifacts seriously. R a t h e r t h a n insist that we i m m e d i a t e l y r e d u c e everything to the interplay of social forces, it suggests that we pay attention to the characteristics of technical objects and the m e a n i n g of those characteristics. A n e c e s s a r y c o m p l e m e n t to, rather t h a n a r e p l a c e m e n t for, t h e o r i e s of t h e social determination of t e c h n o l o g y , this perspective identifies certain technologies as political p h e n o m e n a in their o w n right. It points us back, to b o r r o w E d m u n d H u s s e r l ' s p h i l o s o p h i c a l i n j u n c t i o n , to the things themselves. In w h a t f o l l o w s I shall offer o u t l i n e s a n d illustrations of t w o w a y s in w h i c h artifacts c a n c o n t a i n political p r o p e r t i e s . First are instances in w h i c h the i n v e n tion, design, or arrangement of a specific technical device or s y s t e m b e c o m e s a w a y of settling an issue in a particular c o m m u n i t y . S e e n in the proper light, e x a m p l e s o f this k i n d are fairly s t r a i g h t f o r w a r d a n d easily u n d e r s t o o d . S e c o n d are cases o f w h a t c a n b e called i n h e r e n t l y political t e c h n o l o g i e s , m a n - m a d e s y s tems that appear to require, or to be strongly compatible w i t h , particular kinds o f p o l i t i c a l r e l a t i o n s h i p s . A r g u m e n t s a b o u t c a s e s o f t h i s k i n d are m u c h m o r e troublesome and closer to the heart of the matter. By "politics," I m e a n arrangem e n t s of p o w e r and authority in h u m a n associations as well as the activities that take place w i t h i n t h o s e a r r a n g e m e n t s , F o r m y p u r p o s e s , " t e c h n o l o g y " h e r e i s u n d e r s t o o d t o m e a n all o f m o d e r n p r a c t i c a l a r t i f i c e , b u t t o a v o i d c o n f u s i o n I prefer to speak of technologies, smaller or larger pieces or s y s t e m s of h a r d w a r e of a specific kind. My i n t e n t i o n is n o t to settle a n y of t h e issues h e r e o n c e a n d for all, b u t t o i n d i c a t e t h e i r g e n e r a l d i m e n s i o n s a n d s i g n i f i c a n c e . 6

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A n y o n e w h o has traveled the h i g h w a y s of America and has b e c o m e used to the n o r m a l h e i g h t of o v e r p a s s e s m a y w e l l find s o m e t h i n g a little o d d a b o u t s o m e of the bridges over the parkways on L o n g Island, N e w York. M a n y of the o v e r p a s s e s are e x t r a o r d i n a r i l y l o w , h a v i n g as little as n i n e feet of clearance at t h e curb. E v e n those w h o h a p p e n e d to notice this structural peculiarity w o u l d not b e i n c l i n e d t o a t t a c h a n y s p e c i a l m e a n i n g t o it. I n o u r a c c u s t o m e d w a y o f l o o k ing at things like roads and bridges we see the details of f o r m as i n n o c u o u s , and seldom give them a second thought. It turns out, h o w e v e r , that the t w o hundred or so low-hanging overpasses on L o n g Island w e r e deliberately d e s i g n e d to a c h i e v e a particular social effect. Robert M o s e s , the master builder of roads, parks, bridges, and other public works from the 1920s to the 1970s in N e w York, had these overpasses built to specifications that w o u l d discourage the presence of buses on his p a r k w a y s . A c c o r d i n g t o e v i d e n c e p r o v i d e d b y R o b e r t A . C a r o i n his b i o g r a p h y o f M o s e s , the r e a s o n s reflect M o s e s ' s social-class bias a n d racial p r e j u d i c e . A u t o m o b i l e -

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o w n i n g whites of "upper" and "comfortable middle" classes, as he called t h e m , w o u l d be free to use the p a r k w a y s for recreation and c o m m u t i n g . P o o r p e o p l e a n d b l a c k s , w h o n o r m a l l y u s e d p u b l i c t r a n s i t , w e r e k e p t off t h e r o a d s b e c a u s e t h e t w e l v e - f o o t tall b u s e s c o u l d n o t g e t t h r o u g h t h e o v e r p a s s e s . O n e c o n s e q u e n c e w a s t o limit access o f racial m i n o r i t i e s a n d l o w - i n c o m e g r o u p s t o J o n e s Beachi Moses's w i d e l y acclaimed public park. M o s e s m a d e d o u b l y sure of this result by vetoing a proposed extension of the L o n g Island Railroad to J o n e s Beach. A s a s t o r y i n r e c e n t A m e r i c a n p o l i t i c a l h i s t o r y , R o b e r t M o s e s ' s life i s f a s c i nating. H i s dealings w i t h m a y o r s , governors, and presidents, and his careful manipulation of legislatures, banks, labor unions, the press, and public opinion a r e all m a t t e r s t h a t p o l i t i c a l s c i e n t i s t s c o u l d s t u d y f o r y e a r s . B u t t h e m o s t i m p o r tant and e n d u r i n g results of his w o r k are his t e c h n o l o g i e s , the vast e n g i n e e r i n g p r o j e c t s t h a t g i v e N e w Y o r k m u c h o f its p r e s e n t f o r m . F o r g e n e r a t i o n s a f t e r M o s e s has g o n e and the alliances he forged have fallen apart, his public works, especially the h i g h w a y s and bridges he built to favor the use of the automobile over the d e v e l o p m e n t of m a s s transit, will c o n t i n u e to s h a p e that city. M a n y of his m o n u m e n t a l structures of concrete and steel e m b o d y a s y s t e m a t i c social inequality, a w a y of e n g i n e e r i n g relationships a m o n g p e o p l e that, after a t i m e , b e c o m e s just another part of the landscape. As planner L e e K o p p l e m a n told Caro about the l o w bridges on Wantagh Parkway, " T h e old son-of-a-gun had m a d e s u r e t h a t b u s e s w o u l d never b e a b l e t o u s e h i s g o d d a m n e d p a r k w a y s . " Histories of architecture, city planning, and public works contain m a n y examples of physical arrangements that contain explicit or implicit political purposes. O n e can point to Baron Haussmann's broad Parisian thoroughfares, engineered at Louis Napoleon's direction to prevent any recurrence of street fighting of the kind that took place during the revolution of 1848. Or one can visit a n y n u m b e r o f g r o t e s q u e c o n c r e t e b u i l d i n g s and h u g e plazas c o n s t r u c t e d o n A m e r i c a n u n i v e r s i t y c a m p u s e s d u r i n g the late 1 9 6 0 s and early 1 9 7 0 s t o d e fuse student demonstrations. Studies of industrial m a c h i n e s and instruments also turn up interesting political stories, including s o m e that violate our normal e x p e c t a t i o n s a b o u t w h y t e c h n o l o g i c a l i n n o v a t i o n s a r e m a d e i n t h e first p l a c e . I f w e s u p p o s e that n e w t e c h n o l o g i e s are i n t r o d u c e d t o a c h i e v e i n c r e a s e d efficiency, the history of technology s h o w s that we will s o m e t i m e s be disappointed. T e c h n o l o g i c a l c h a n g e expresses a p a n o p l y of h u m a n m o t i v e s , not the least of w h i c h is the desire of some to have d o m i n i o n over others, even though it m a y require a n occasional sacrifice o f c o s t - c u t t i n g a n d s o m e v i o l e n c e t o the n o r m o f getting m o r e f r o m less. O n e poignant illustration can be f o u n d in the history of nineteenth century industrial mechanization. At C y r u s M c C o r m i c k ' s reaper m a n u f a c t u r i n g plant in Chicago in the middle 1880s, pneumatic m o l d i n g machines, a n e w and largely untested innovation, were added to the foundry at an estimated cost of $500,000. In the standard economic interpretation of s u c h things, we w o u l d expect that this step w a s taken to modernize the plant and achieve the kind of efficiencies that m e c h a n i z a t i o n brings. B u t historian R o b e r t O z a n n e has s h o w n w h y the development must be seen in a broader context. At the time, Cyrus M c C o r m i c k II w a s engaged in a battle w i t h the N a t i o n a l U n i o n of Iron M o l d ers. H e s a w the a d d i t i o n o f the n e w m a c h i n e s a s a w a y t o " w e e d o u t t h e bad 8

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element a m o n g the m e n , " n a m e l y , the skilled workers w h o had organized the u n i o n local i n C h i c a g o . T h e n e w m a c h i n e s , m a n n e d b y u n s k i l l e d labor, actually p r o d u c e d inferior castings at a h i g h e r cost than the earlier process. After three years of use the m a c h i n e s w e r e , in fact, a b a n d o n e d , b u t by that t i m e t h e y had served their p u r p o s e — t h e destruction of the union. T h u s , the story of these technical d e v e l o p m e n t s at the M c C o r m i c k factory cannot be understood adequately outside the record of workers' attempts to organize, police repression of the labor m o v e m e n t in Chicago during that period, and the events surrounding the b o m b i n g at H a y m a r k e t Square. T e c h n o l o g i c a l history and A m e r i c a n political h i s t o r y w e r e a t t h a t m o m e n t d e e p l y i n t e r t w i n e d . In cases like those of Moses's l o w bridges and M c C o r m i c k ' s m o l d i n g m a c h i n e s , o n e s e e s t h e i m p o r t a n c e o f t e c h n i c a l a r r a n g e m e n t s t h a t p r e c e d e t h e use o f the things in question. It is o b v i o u s that technologies can be u s e d in w a y s that enhance t h e p o w e r , authority, a n d privilege of s o m e over others, for e x a m p l e , the u s e o f t e l e v i s i o n t o sell a c a n d i d a t e . T o o u r a c c u s t o m e d w a y o f t h i n k i n g , t e c h n o l o g i e s are s e e n a s neutral t o o l s t h a t c a n b e u s e d w e l l o r p o o r l y , for g o o d , evil, or s o m e t h i n g in b e t w e e n . B u t we usually do n o t stop to inquire w h e t h e r a given device m i g h t have been designed and built in s u c h a w a y that it produces a s e t o f c o n s e q u e n c e s l o g i c a l l y a n d t e m p o r a l l y prior t o a n y o f i t s p r o f e s s e d u s e s . R o b e r t Moses's b r i d g e s , a f t e r all, w e r e u s e d t o c a r r y a u t o m o b i l e s f r o m o n e p o i n t to another; M c C o r m i c k ' s machines w e r e used to make metal castings; both techn o l o g i e s , h o w e v e r , e n c o m p a s s e d p u r p o s e s far b e y o n d t h e i r i m m e d i a t e u s e . I f our moral a n d political l a n g u a g e for e v a l u a t i n g t e c h n o l o g y i n c l u d e s o n l y categories having to do w i t h tools and uses, if it does not include attention to the m e a n i n g of t h e d e s i g n s and a r r a n g e m e n t s of our artifacts, t h e n we w i l l . b e blinded to m u c h that is intellectually and practically crucial. Because the point is m o s t easily understood in the light of particular int e n t i o n s e m b o d i e d i n p h y s i c a l f o r m , I h a v e s o far o f f e r e d i l l u s t r a t i o n s t h a t s e e m almost conspiratorial. B u t to r e c o g n i z e the political d i m e n s i o n s in the shapes of t e c h n o l o g y d o e s n o t require that we look for conscious conspiracies or malicious intentions. T h e organized m o v e m e n t of handicapped p e o p l e in the U n i t e d States during the 1970s pointed out the countless w a y s in w h i c h machines, instruments, and structures of c o m m o n u s e — b u s e s , buildings, sidewalks, p l u m b i n g fixtures, and so f o r t h — m a d e it impossible for m a n y h a n d i c a p p e d persons to m o v e about freely, a condition that systematically excluded t h e m from p u b l i c life. It is safe to s a y that d e s i g n s u n s u i t e d for the h a n d i c a p p e d arose m o r e from long-standing neglect than from anyone's active intention. But n o w that the issue has b e e n raised for p u b l i c attention, it is e v i d e n t that justice r e q u i r e s a r e m e d y , A w h o l e range of artifacts are n o w being r e d e s i g n e d and rebuilt to a c c o m m o d a t e this minority. Indeed, m a n y of the m o s t important examples of technologies that have political c o n s e q u e n c e s are t h o s e that t r a n s c e n d t h e s i m p l e categories of "int e n d e d " a n d " u n i n t e n d e d " a l t o g e t h e r . T h e s e are i n s t a n c e s i n w h i c h the v e r y process of technical d e v e l o p m e n t is so t h o r o u g h l y biased in a particular direction that it regularly produces results c o u n t e d as w o n d e r f u l breakthroughs by s o m e social interests and crushing setbacks by others. In s u c h cases it is neither correct nor insightful to say, " S o m e o n e intended to do s o m e b o d y else harm." Rather, one m u s t say that the technological deck has been stacked long in ad1 0

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vance to favor certain social interests, a n d that s o m e p e o p l e w e r e b o u n d to receive a better hand than others. T h e mechanical tomato harvester, a remarkable device perfected by researchers at the U n i v e r s i t y of California f r o m the late 1 9 4 0 s to t h e p r e s e n t , offers an illustrative tale. T h e m a c h i n e is able to harvest t o m a t o e s in a single pass t h r o u g h a r o w , cutting the plants f r o m the g r o u n d , s h a k i n g the fruit loose, and in the n e w e s t models sorting the tomatoes electronically into large plastic g o n d o l a s that h o l d u p t o t w e n t y - f i v e t o n s o f p r o d u c e h e a d e d for c a n n i n g . T o a c c o m m o d a t e the r o u g h m o t i o n of these "factories in the field," agricultural researchers h a v e bred n e w varieties of t o m a t o e s that are hardier, sturdier, a n d less tasty. T h e harvesters replace t h e s y s t e m o f h a n d p i c k i n g , i n w h i c h c r e w s o f farmworkers w o u l d pass through the fields three or four times putting ripe tom a t o e s i n l u g b o x e s a n d s a v i n g i m m a t u r e fruit for later h a r v e s t . S t u d i e s i n California indicate that the m a c h i n e reduces costs by approximately five to seve n dollars p e r t o n a s c o m p a r e d t o h a n d - h a r v e s t i n g . B u t t h e benefits are b y n o m e a n s equally d i v i d e d in the agricultural e c o n o m y . In fact, the m a c h i n e in the g a r d e n has in this instance b e e n t h e o c c a s i o n for a t h o r o u g h r e s h a p i n g of social relationships of t o m a t o p r o d u c t i o n in rural California. By their very size and cost, more than $50,000 each to purchase, the mac h i n e s are c o m p a t i b l e o n l y w i t h a h i g h l y c o n c e n t r a t e d f o r m o f t o m a t o g r o w i n g . W i t h the introduction of this n e w m e t h o d of harvesting, the n u m b e r of t o m a t o growers declined from approximately four thousand in the early 1960s to about six h u n d r e d in 1973, y e t w i t h a substantial increase in t o n s of t o m a t o e s p r o d u c e d . B y the late 1 9 7 0 s a n e s t i m a t e d t h i r t y - t w o t h o u s a n d jobs i n t h e t o m a t o industry had been eliminated as a direct consequence of m e c h a n i z a t i o n . T h u s , a j u m p in productivity to the benefit of very large g r o w e r s has occurred at a sacrifice to o t h e r rural agricultural c o m m u n i t i e s . T h e U n i v e r s i t y o f California's research and d e v e l o p m e n t o n agricultural m a c h i n e s like the t o m a t o harvester is at this t i m e t h e s u b j e c t of a l a w suit filed by attorneys for California Rural L e g a l A s s i s t a n c e , an organization r e p r e s e n t i n g a group of farmworkers and other interested parties. T h e suit charges that U n i v e r s i t y officials are s p e n d i n g tax m o n i e s o n p r o j e c t s t h a t b e n e f i t a h a n d ful o f p r i v a t e i n t e r e s t s t o t h e d e t r i m e n t o f f a r m w o r k e r s , s m a l l f a r m e r s , c o n s u m e r s , a n d rural California g e n e r a l l y , a n d asks for a c o u r t i n j u n c t i o n to s t o p t h e practice. T h e U n i v e r s i t y has denied these charges, arguing that to accept t h e m " w o u l d r e q u i r e e l i m i n a t i o n o f all r e s e a r c h w i t h a n y p o t e n t i a l p r a c t i c a l application." A s far a s I k n o w , n o o n e h a s a r g u e d t h a t t h e d e v e l o p m e n t o f t h e t o m a t o harvester w a s the result of a plot. T w o students of the controversy, William Friedland and A m y Barton, specifically exonerate both the original developers of the m a c h i n e a n d the hard t o m a t o from a n y desire to facilitate e c o n o m i c c o n centration in that i n d u s t r y . W h a t we see here instead is an o n g o i n g social process in w h i c h scientific k n o w l e d g e , technological invention, and corporate profit reinforce e a c h o t h e r i n d e e p l y e n t r e n c h e d p a t t e r n s t h a t b e a r t h e u n m i s t a k able stamp of political and e c o n o m i c p o w e r . O v e r m a n y decades agricultural research and d e v e l o p m e n t in A m e r i c a n land-grant colleges a n d universities has tended to favor the interests of large agribusiness c o n c e r n s . It is in the face of s u c h s u b t l y i n g r a i n e d patterns that o p p o n e n t s o f i n n o v a t i o n s like t h e t o m a t o 1 1

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harvester are m a d e t o s e e m " a n t i t e c h n o l o g y " o r " a n t i p r o g r e s s . " F o r t h e h a r v e s ter is not m e r e l y the s y m b o l of a social order that r e w a r d s s o m e w h i l e p u n i s h i n g others; it is in a true sense an e m b o d i m e n t of that order. W i t h i n a given category of technological change there are, roughly speaking, t w o k i n d s of c h o i c e s that can affect the relative d i s t r i b u t i o n of p o w e r , a u t h o r i t y , and privilege in a c o m m u n i t y . O f t e n the crucial decision is a simple "yes or n o " choice—are we going to develop and adopt the thing or not? In recent years m a n y local, national, and international disputes about t e c h n o l o g y have centered on "yes or no" judgments about such things as food additives, pesticides, the building of h i g h w a y s , nuclear reactors, and d a m projects. T h e fundamental choice about an A B M or an S S T is w h e t h e r or not the thing is going to join s o c i e t y as a p i e c e of its o p e r a t i n g e q u i p m e n t . R e a s o n s for a n d against are frequently as important as those concerning the adoption of an important n e w law. A s e c o n d r a n g e of choices, e q u a l l y critical in m a n y instances, has to do w i t h specific features in the d e s i g n or a r r a n g e m e n t of a technical s y s t e m after the decision to go a h e a d w i t h it has a l r e a d y b e e n m a d e . E v e n after a utility c o m p a n y w i n s p e r m i s s i o n to build a large electric p o w e r line, i m p o r t a n t controversies c a n r e m a i n w i t h r e s p e c t t o t h e p l a c e m e n t . o f its r o u t e a n d t h e d e s i g n o f its t o w e r s ; e v e n after a n o r g a n i z a t i o n h a s d e c i d e d t o institute a s y s t e m o f c o m p u t e r s , c o n troversies c a n still arise w i t h regard t o t h e k i n d s o f c o m p o n e n t s , p r o g r a m s , modes of access, and other specific features the s y s t e m will include. O n c e the m e c h a n i c a l t o m a t o h a r v e s t e r h a d b e e n d e v e l o p e d i n its b a s i c f o r m , d e s i g n alteration of critical social s i g n i f i c a n c e — t h e addition of electronic sorters, for e x a m p l e — c h a n g e d t h e character of the machine's effects on t h e balance of w e a l t h and p o w e r i n California agriculture. S o m e o f the m o s t interesting research o n technology and politics at present focuses on the attempt to demonstrate in a detailed, concrete fashion h o w s e e m i n g l y i n n o c u o u s design features in m a s s transit s y s t e m s , w a t e r projects, industrial m a c h i n e r y , and o t h e r t e c h n o l o g i e s actually m a s k social choices of profound significance. Historian D a v i d N o b l e is n o w s t u d y i n g t w o kinds of automated m a c h i n e tool s y s t e m s that have different implications for t h e relative p o w e r o f m a n a g e m e n t a n d labor i n t h e industries that m i g h t e m p l o y t h e m . H e i s able t o s h o w that, a l t h o u g h t h e basic electronic and mechanical c o m p o n e n t s of the record/playback and numerical control s y s t e m s are s i m i l a r , t h e c h o i c e o f o n e d e s i g n o v e r a n o t h e r h a s c r u c i a l c o n s e q u e n c e s for s o c i a l s t r u g g l e s o n t h e s h o p f l o o r . T o s e e t h e m a t t e r s o l e l y i n t e r m s o f c o s t cutting, efficiency, or the modernization of e q u i p m e n t is to miss a decisive element in the story. 1 7

F r o m s u c h e x a m p l e s I w o u l d offer t h e f o l l o w i n g g e n e r a l c o n c l u s i o n s . T h e things w e call " t e c h n o l o g i e s " are w a y s o f b u i l d i n g order i n o u r w o r l d . M a n y technical d e v i c e s a n d s y s t e m s i m p o r t a n t in e v e r y d a y life c o n t a i n possibilities for m a n y different w a y s of ordering h u m a n activity. C o n s c i o u s l y or not, deliberately or inadvertently, societies c h o o s e structures for technologies that influence h o w p e o p l e are g o i n g t o w o r k , c o m m u n i c a t e , travel, c o n s u m e , a n d s o forth o v e r a v e r y l o n g t i m e . I n t h e p r o c e s s e s b y w h i c h s t r u c t u r i n g d e c i s i o n s are m a d e , different p e o p l e are differently situated a n d possess u n e q u a l d e g r e e s of p o w e r as w e l l a s u n e q u a l l e v e l s o f a w a r e n e s s . B y far t h e g r e a t e s t l a t i t u d e o f c h o i c e e x i s t s t h e v e r y first t i m e a p a r t i c u l a r i n s t r u m e n t , s y s t e m , o r t e c h n i q u e i s i n t r o d u c e d . Because choices tend to b e c o m e strongly fixed in material equipment, e c o n o m i c

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i n v e s t m e n t , a n d s o c i a l h a b i t , t h e o r i g i n a l f l e x i b i l i t y v a n i s h e s f o r all p r a c t i c a l p u r p o s e s o n c e t h e initial c o m m i t m e n t s are m a d e . In that s e n s e t e c h n o l o g i c a l i n n o v a t i o n s are similar to legislative acts or political f o u n d i n g s that establish a f r a m e w o r k for p u b l i c o r d e r that will e n d u r e o v e r m a n y g e n e r a t i o n s . F o r t h a t reason, the s a m e careful attention o n e w o u l d give to the rules, roles, a n d relationships of politics m u s t also be g i v e n to s u c h things as the b u i l d i n g of h i g h w a y s , the creation of television networks, and the tailoring of seemingly insignificant features on n e w machines. T h e issues that divide or unite people in s o c i e t y are settled n o t o n l y in t h e institutions and practices of politics proper, b u t also, and less obviously, in tangible arrangements of steel and concrete, wires and transistors, nuts and bolts. Inherently

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N o n e o f t h e a r g u m e n t s a n d e x a m p l e s c o n s i d e r e d t h u s far a d d r e s s a s t r o n g e r , more troubling claim often m a d e in writings about technology and society—-the b e l i e f that s o m e t e c h n o l o g i e s are by their v e r y nature political in a specific w a y . A c c o r d i n g to this v i e w , the adoption of a given technical s y s t e m u n a v o i d a b l y brings w i t h it conditions for h u m a n relationships that have a distinctive political cast—for e x a m p l e , centralized or decentralized, egalitarian or inegalitarian, re-. pressive or liberating. T h i s is u l t i m a t e l y w h a t is at stake in assertions like those of L e w i s M u m f o r d that t w o traditions of t e c h n o l o g y , o n e authoritarian, the o t h e r d e m o c r a t i c , e x i s t s i d e b y s i d e i n W e s t e r n h i s t o r y . I n all t h e c a s e s I c i t e d a b o v e the t e c h n o l o g i e s are relatively flexible in d e s i g n a n d a r r a n g e m e n t , a n d variable in their effects. A l t h o u g h one c a n recognize a particular result p r o d u c e d in a particular setting, o n e can also easily i m a g i n e h o w a r o u g h l y similar device or s y s t e m m i g h t have b e e n built or situated w i t h v e r y m u c h different political consequences. T h e idea we m u s t n o w e x a m i n e and evaluate is that certain kinds of t e c h n o l o g y do not allow such flexibility, and that to choose t h e m is to choose a particular f o r m of political life. A remarkably forceful statement of o n e version of this a r g u m e n t appears in Friedrich Engels's little essay " O n A u t h o r i t y " w r i t t e n i n 1 8 7 2 . A n s w e r i n g anarchists w h o believed that authority is an evil that o u g h t to be a b o l i s h e d altogether, E n g e l s l a u n c h e s into a p a n e g y r i c for a u t h o r i t a r i a n i s m , m a i n t a i n i n g , a m o n g other things, that strong authority is a necessary condition in m o d e r n industry. To a d v a n c e his case in the strongest possible w a y , he asks his readers to i m a g i n e that the r e v o l u t i o n has already o c c u r r e d . " S u p p o s i n g a social revolution dethroned the capitalists, w h o n o w exercise their authority over the production and circulation of wealth. Supposing, to adopt entirely the point of view of the anti-authoritarians, that the land and the instruments of labour had b e c o m e the collective property of the workers w h o use t h e m . Will authority have disa p p e a r e d o r w i l l i t h a v e o n l y c h a n g e d its f o r m ? " H i s answer draws u p o n lessons from three sociotechnical s y s t e m s of his day, c o t t o n - s p i n n i n g m i l l s , r a i l w a y s , a n d s h i p s a t sea. H e o b s e r v e s t h a t , o n its w a y t o b e c o m i n g finished thread, cotton m o v e s through a n u m b e r of different opera-. tions at different locations in the factory. T h e workers perform a w i d e variety of tasks, f r o m r u n n i n g the s t e a m e n g i n e to carrying the p r o d u c t s f r o m o n e r o o m to another. B e c a u s e these tasks m u s t be c o o r d i n a t e d , and b e c a u s e the t i m i n g of the w o r k is "fixed by the authority of the s t e a m , " laborers m u s t learn to a c c e p t a 1 8

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rigid discipline. T h e y m u s t , a c c o r d i n g t o E n g e l s , w o r k a t regular h o u r s a n d agree to s u b o r d i n a t e their individual wills to the persons in charge of factory o p e r a t i o n s . I f t h e y fail t o d o s o , t h e y risk t h e h o r r i f y i n g p o s s i b i l i t y that p r o d u c tion will c o m e to a grinding halt, E n g e l s pulls no p u n c h e s . " T h e a u t o m a t i c m a c h i n e r y o f a b i g f a c t o r y , " h e w r i t e s , "is m u c h m o r e d e s p o t i c t h a n t h e s m a l l capitalists w h o e m p l o y w o r k e r s ever h a v e b e e n . " Similar lessons are a d d u c e d in Engels's analysis of the necessary operating c o n d i t i o n s for r a i l w a y s a n d s h i p s a t sea. B o t h r e q u i r e t h e s u b o r d i n a t i o n o f workers to an "imperious authority" that sees to it that things run according to p l a n . E n g e l s f i n d s t h a t , far f r o m b e i n g a n i d i o s y n c r a c y o f c a p i t a l i s t s o c i a l o r g a n i z a t i o n , r e l a t i o n s h i p s o f a u t h o r i t y a n d s u b o r d i n a t i o n a r i s e " i n d e p e n d e n t l y o f all social o r g a n i z a t i o n , [ a n d ] are i m p o s e d u p o n u s t o g e t h e r w i t h the material c o n d i tions u n d e r w h i c h w e p r o d u c e and m a k e p r o d u c t s circulate." A g a i n , h e i n t e n d s this t o b e s t e r n a d v i c e t o t h e a n a r c h i s t s w h o , a c c o r d i n g t o E n g e l s , t h o u g h t i t possible s i m p l y to eradicate subordination and superordination at a single stroke. A l l s u c h s c h e m e s are n o n s e n s e . T h e roots o f u n a v o i d a b l e a u t h o r itarianism are, h e argues, d e e p l y i m p l a n t e d i n the h u m a n i n v o l v e m e n t w i t h s c i e n c e a n d t e c h n o l o g y . "If m a n , b y d i n t o f h i s k n o w l e d g e a n d i n v e n t i v e g e n i u s , has s u b d u e d t h e forces o f nature, the latter a v e n g e t h e m s e l v e s u p o n h i m b y subjecting h i m , insofar as he e m p l o y s t h e m , to a veritable despotism independe n t o f all s o c i a l o r g a n i z a t i o n . " A t t e m p t s to justify strong authority on the basis of s u p p o s e d l y necessary conditions of technical practice have an ancient history. A pivotal theme in the Republic i s P l a t o ' s q u e s t t o b o r r o w t h e a u t h o r i t y o f techne a n d e m p l o y i t b y a n a l o gy to buttress his a r g u m e n t in favor of authority in the state. A m o n g the illustrations he c h o o s e s , like E n g e l s , is that of a ship on t h e h i g h seas. B e c a u s e large sailing vessels by their v e r y nature n e e d to be steered w i t h a firm h a n d , sailors must yield to their captain's c o m m a n d s ; no reasonable person believes that ships can be run democratically. Plato goes on to suggest that governing a state is rather like b e i n g c a p t a i n of a s h i p or like practicing m e d i c i n e as a p h y s i c i a n . M u c h the s a m e c o n d i t i o n s that require central rule and decisive action in organized technical activity also create this n e e d in g o v e r n m e n t . I n E n g e l s ' s a r g u m e n t , a n d a r g u m e n t s l i k e it, t h e j u s t i f i c a t i o n f o r a u t h o r i t y i s no longer m a d e by Plato's classic analogy, but rather directly w i t h reference to t e c h n o l o g y itself. I f t h e b a s i c c a s e i s a s c o m p e l l i n g a s E n g e l s b e l i e v e d i t t o b e , one w o u l d expect that, as a society adopted increasingly complicated technical s y s t e m s a s its m a t e r i a l b a s i s , t h e p r o s p e c t s f o r a u t h o r i t a r i a n w a y s o f life w o u l d be greatly e n h a n c e d . Central control by knowledgeable people acting at the top of a rigid social h i e r a r c h y w o u l d s e e m increasingly p r u d e n t . In this respect, his stand in " O n A u t h o r i t y " appears to be at variance w i t h Karl Marx's position in V o l u m e O n e o f Capital. M a r x t r i e s t o s h o w t h a t i n c r e a s i n g m e c h a n i z a t i o n w i l l render obsolete the hierarchical, division of labor and the relationships of subordination that, in his v i e w , w e r e necessary during the early stages of m o d e r n manufacturing. T h e "Modern Industry," he writes, " . . . sweeps a w a y by technical m e a n s the manufacturing division of labor, under w h i c h each m a n is b o u n d h a n d a n d f o o t for life to a s i n g l e detail o p e r a t i o n . At t h e s a m e t i m e , t h e capitalistic f o r m of that i n d u s t r y r e p r o d u c e s this s a m e division of labour in a still m o r e m o n s t r o u s s h a p e ; i n t h e f a c t o r y p r o p e r , b y c o n v e r t i n g t h e w o r k m a n i n t o a l i v i n g a p p e n d a g e o f t h e m a c h i n e , . . ." I n M a r x ' s v i e w , t h e c o n d i t i o n s 1 9

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that will e v e n t u a l l y dissolve the capitalist division of labor a n d facilitate prolet a r i a n r e v o l u t i o n a r e c o n d i t i o n s l a t e n t i n i n d u s t r i a l t e c h n o l o g y itself. T h e diff e r e n c e s b e t w e e n M a r x ' s p o s i t i o n i n Capital a n d E n g e l s ' s i n h i s e s s a y r a i s e a n i m p o r t a n t q u e s t i o n f o r s o c i a l i s m : W h a t , a f t e r all, d o e s m o d e r n t e c h n o l o g y m a k e p o s s i b l e o r n e c e s s a r y i n political life? T h e theoretical t e n s i o n w e s e e h e r e m i r rors m a n y t r o u b l e s i n t h e practice o f f r e e d o m and a u t h o r i t y that h a v e m u d d i e d the tracks of socialist revolution. A r g u m e n t s t o t h e effect that t e c h n o l o g i e s are i n s o m e s e n s e i n h e r e n t l y political h a v e b e e n a d v a n c e d i n a w i d e v a r i e t y o f c o n t e x t s , far t o o m a n y t o s u m m a r i z e here. I n m y r e a d i n g o f s u c h n o t i o n s , h o w e v e r , there are t w o basic w a y s o f stating the case. O n e version claims that the adoption of a given technical sys< t e r n a c t u a l l y requires t h e c r e a t i o n a n d m a i n t e n a n c e o f a p a r t i c u l a r s e t o f s o c i a l I conditions as the operating e n v i r o n m e n t of that s y s t e m . Engels's position is of t h i s k i n d . A s i m i l a r v i e w i s o f f e r e d b y a c o n t e m p o r a r y w r i t e r w h o h o l d s t h a t "if y o u accept nuclear p o w e r plants, y o u also accept a techno-scientific-industrialmilitary elite. W i t h o u t these p e o p l e in charge, y o u c o u l d not h a v e nuclear p o w e r . " In this conception, s o m e kinds of t e c h n o l o g y require their social environments to be structured in a particular w a y in m u c h the same sense that an a u t o m o b i l e requires w h e e l s in order to run. T h e t h i n g could n o t exist as an effective operating entity unless certain social as well as material conditions w e r e met. T h e m e a n i n g of "required" here is that of practical (rather than logical) n e c e s s i t y . T h u s , P l a t o t h o u g h t i t a p r a c t i c a l n e c e s s i t y t h a t a s h i p a t s e a h a v e one captain and an unquestioningly obedient crew. A second, s o m e w h a t weaker, version of the a r g u m e n t holds that a given k i n d o f t e c h n o l o g y i s s t r o n g l y compatible with, b u t d o e s n o t s t r i c t l y r e q u i r e , social and political relationships of a particular stripe. M a n y a d v o c a t e s of solar e n e r g y n o w h o l d that t e c h n o l o g i e s of that variety are m o r e c o m p a t i b l e w i t h a d e m o c r a t i c , egalitarian society than e n e r g y s y s t e m s based on coal, oil, a n d n u clear p o w e r ; at t h e s a m e t i m e t h e y do not maintain that a n y t h i n g about solar e n e r g y requires d e m o c r a c y . T h e i r case is, briefly, that solar e n e r g y is decentralizing in b o t h a technical and political sense: technically speaking, it is vastly m o r e reasonable to build solar s y s t e m s in a disaggregated, w i d e l y distributed m a n n e r than in large-scale centralized plants; politically speaking, solar e n e r g y a c c o m m o d a t e s the a t t e m p t s of individuals and local c o m m u n i t i e s to m a n a g e t h e i r affairs e f f e c t i v e l y b e c a u s e t h e y a r e d e a l i n g w i t h s y s t e m s t h a t a r e m o r e accessible, comprehensible, and controllable than huge centralized sources. In t h i s v i e w , s o l a r e n e r g y i s d e s i r a b l e n o t o n l y f o r its e c o n o m i c a n d e n v i r o n m e n t a l benefits, b u t also for t h e salutary i n s t i t u t i o n s it is likely to p e r m i t in o t h e r areas of public life. Within both versions of the argument there is a further distinction to be m a d e b e t w e e n c o n d i t i o n s t h a t a r e internal t o t h e w o r k i n g s o f a g i v e n t e c h n i c a l s y s t e m a n d t h o s e t h a t a r e external t o it. E n g e l s ' s t h e s i s c o n c e r n s i n t e r n a l s o c i a l relations said to be required w i t h i n c o t t o n factories a n d r a i l w a y s , for e x a m p l e ; w h a t s u c h relationships m e a n for t h e c o n d i t i o n of s o c i e t y at large is for h i m a separate question. In contrast, the solar advocate's belief that solar t e c h n o l o g i e s are c o m p a t i b l e w i t h d e m o c r a c y pertains to the w a y t h e y c o m p l e m e n t aspects of society removed from the organization of those technologies as such. T h e r e are, t h e n , several different directions that a r g u m e n t s of this kind can follow. A r e the social conditions predicated said to be required by, or strongly 2 9

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compatible with, the workings of a given technical system? Are those conditions internal to that s y s t e m or external to it (or both)? A l t h o u g h w r i t i n g s that a d d r e s s s u c h q u e s t i o n s are often unclear a b o u t w h a t is b e i n g asserted, a r g u m e n t s in this general category do have an important presence in m o d e r n political discourse. T h e y e n t e r into m a n y a t t e m p t s t o e x p l a i n h o w c h a n g e s i n social life take p l a c e in the w a k e of technological innovation. M o r e i m p o r t a n t l y , t h e y are often u s e d to buttress attempts to justify or criticize proposed courses of action involving n e w t e c h n o l o g y . B y offering d i s t i n c t l y political r e a s o n s for o r against the a d o p ; tion of a particular t e c h n o l o g y , a r g u m e n t s of this kind stand apart from m o r e c o m m o n l y e m p l o y e d , m o r e easily quantifiable claims about e c o n o m i c costs and benefits, e n v i r o n m e n t a l i m p a c t s , a n d p o s s i b l e risks to p u b l i c h e a l t h and safety that technical s y s t e m s m a y involve. T h e issue here d o e s not c o n c e r n h o w m a n y jobs will b e created, h o w m u c h i n c o m e generated, h o w m a n y pollutants a d d e d , or h o w m a n y cancers p r o d u c e d . Rather, the issue has to do w i t h w a y s in w h i c h choices a b o u t t e c h n o l o g y h a v e i m p o r t a n t c o n s e q u e n c e s for t h e f o r m and quality of h u m a n associations. If we e x a m i n e social patterns that comprise the e n v i r o n m e n t s of technical systems, we find certain devices and systems almost invariably linked to specific w a y s o f o r g a n i z i n g p o w e r a n d a u t h o r i t y . T h e i m p o r t a n t q u e s t i o n is: D o e s t h i s s t a t e o f affairs d e r i v e f r o m a n u n a v o i d a b l e s o c i a l r e s p o n s e t o i n t r a c t a b l e p r o p e r ties in the t h i n g s t h e m s e l v e s , or is it i n s t e a d a p a t t e r n i m p o s e d i n d e p e n d e n t l y by a g o v e r n i n g b o d y , ruling class, or s o m e other social or cultural institution to further its o w n p u r p o s e s ? T a k i n g the m o s t o b v i o u s e x a m p l e , the a t o m b o m b is an inherently political artifact. As l o n g as it e x i s t s at all, its lethal p r o p e r t i e s d e m a n d that it be c o n t r o l l e d b y a c e n t r a l i z e d , r i g i d l y h i e r a r c h i c a l c h a i n o f c o m m a n d c l o s e d t o all i n f l u e n c e s t h a t m i g h t m a k e its w o r k i n g s u n p r e d i c t a b l e . T h e i n t e r n a l s o c i a l s y s t e m of the b o m b m u s t be authoritarian; there is no other w a y . T h e state of affairs s t a n d s a s a p r a c t i c a l n e c e s s i t y i n d e p e n d e n t o f a n y l a r g e r p o l i t i c a l s y s t e m in w h i c h the b o m b is e m b e d d e d , independent of the kind of regime or character o f its r u l e r s . I n d e e d , d e m o c r a t i c s t a t e s m u s t t r y t o f i n d w a y s t o e n s u r e t h a t t h e social structures a n d m e n t a l i t y that characterize the m a n a g e m e n t o f n u c l e a r w e a p o n s do not "spin off' or "spill over" into the polity as a w h o l e . T h e b o m b is, of c o u r s e , a special case. T h e reasons v e r y rigid relationships o f a u t h o r i t y are n e c e s s a r y i n its i m m e d i a t e p r e s e n c e s h o u l d b e clear t o a n y o n e . If, h o w e v e r , w e l o o k f o r o t h e r i n s t a n c e s i n w h i c h p a r t i c u l a r v a r i e t i e s o f t e c h n o l o g y a r e widely perceived t o n e e d t h e m a i n t e n a n c e o f a s p e c i a l p a t t e r n o f p o w e r and authority, m o d e r n technical history contains a w e a l t h of e x a m p l e s . A l f r e d D . C h a n d l e r i n The Visible Hand, a m o n u m e n t a l s t u d y o f m o d e r n business enterprise, presents impressive documentation to defend the hypothesis t h a t t h e c o n s t r u c t i o n a n d d a y - t o - d a y o p e r a t i o n o f m a n y s y s t e m s o f p r o d u c tion, transportation, and c o m m u n i c a t i o n in the n i n e t e e n t h and t w e n t i e t h centuries require the d e v e l o p m e n t of a particular social f o r m — a large-scale c e n •. tralized, hierarchical organization a d m i n i s t e r e d by h i g h l y skilled m a n a g e r s . Typical of Chandler's reasoning is his analysis of the g r o w t h of the railroads.

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T e c h n o l o g y m a d e p o s s i b l e fast, a l l - w e a t h e r transportation; b u t safe, regular, reliable m o v e m e n t o f g o o d s and p a s s e n g e r s , a s w e l l a s t h e c o n t i n u i n g m a i n t e n a n c e and repair of l o c o m o t i v e s , r o l l i n g stock, and track, r o a d b e d , stations,- r o u n d 27

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h o u s e s , and o t h e r e q u i p m e n t , r e q u i r e d t h e creation of a sizable a d m i n i s t r a t i v e organization. It m e a n t t h e e m p l o y m e n t of a set of m a n a g e r s to s u p e r v i s e t h e s e functional activities o v e r an e x t e n s i v e g e o g r a p h i c a l area; and t h e a p p o i n t m e n t of an a d m i n i s t r a t i v e c o m m a n d o f m i d d l e and t o p e x e c u t i v e s t o m o n i t o r , evaluate, and c o o r d i n a t e t h e w o r k o f m a n a g e r s r e s p o n s i b l e for the d a y - t o - d a y o p e r a t i o n s . T h r o u g h o u t his book Chandler points to w a y s in w h i c h technologies used in the production and distribution of electricity, chemicals, and a w i d e range of industrial g o o d s " d e m a n d e d " o r " r e q u i r e d " t h i s f o r m o f h u m a n a s s o c i a t i o n . " H e n c e , t h e o p e r a t i o n a l r e q u i r e m e n t s o f r a i l r o a d s d e m a n d e d t h e c r e a t i o n o f t h e first administrative hierarchies in A m e r i c a n business." Were there other conceivable w a y s of organizing these aggregates of people and apparatus? C h a n d l e r s h o w s that a previously d o m i n a n t social f o r m , t h e small traditional f a m i l y firm, s i m p l y c o u l d not h a n d l e t h e task in m o s t cases. A l t h o u g h he d o e s n o t speculate further, it is clear that he believes there is, to be realistic, v e r y little latitude in t h e f o r m s of p o w e r and a u t h o r i t y appropriate within modern sociotechnical systems. T h e properties of m a n y modern techn o l o g i e s — o i l p i p e l i n e s a n d refineries, for e x a m p l e — a r e s u c h that o v e r w h e l m i n g l y i m p r e s s i v e e c o n o m i e s o f scale a n d s p e e d are p o s s i b l e . I f s u c h s y s t e m s are t o w o r k e f f e c t i v e l y , efficiently, q u i c k l y , a n d s a f e l y , c e r t a i n r e q u i r e m e n t s of internal social o r g a n i z a t i o n h a v e to be fulfilled; the material p o s s i bilities that m o d e r n t e c h n o l o g i e s m a k e available c o u l d not be e x p l o i t e d otherwise. Chandler acknowledges that as one compares sociotechnical institutions of different nations, one sees " w a y s in w h i c h cultural attitudes, values, ideologies, political s y s t e m s , a n d social structure affect these i m p e r a t i v e s . " B u t t h e w e i g h t o f a r g u m e n t a n d e m p i r i c a l e v i d e n c e i n The Visible Hand s u g g e s t s that any significant departure f r o m the basic pattern w o u l d be, at best, highly unlikely. 2 5

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It m a y be that o t h e r c o n c e i v a b l e arrangements of p o w e r and authority, for example, those of decentralized, democratic worker self-management, could p r o v e capable of a d m i n i s t e r i n g factories, refineries, c o m m u n i c a t i o n s s y s t e m s , and railroads as well as or better t h a n the organizations C h a n d l e r describes. Evidence from automobile assembly teams in Sweden and worker-managed plants in Yugoslavia and other countries is often presented to salvage these possibilities. I shall n o t be able to settle controversies o v e r this matter here, b u t merely point to w h a t I consider to be their bone of contention. T h e available e v i d e n c e t e n d s t o s h o w that m a n y large, sophisticated t e c h n o l o g i c a l s y s t e m s are i n fact h i g h l y c o m p a t i b l e w i t h c e n t r a l i z e d , hierarchical m a n a g e r i a l control. T h e interesting question, h o w e v e r , has to do with w h e t h e r or not this pattern is in any sense a r e q u i r e m e n t of s u c h s y s t e m s , a question that is not solely an empirical o n e . T h e m a t t e r u l t i m a t e l y r e s t s o n o u r j u d g m e n t s a b o u t w h a t s t e p s , i f a n y , are practically n e c e s s a r y i n t h e w o r k i n g s o f particular k i n d s o f t e c h n o l o g y a n d what, if anything, such measures require of the structure of h u m a n associations. W a s Plato right in s a y i n g that a ship at sea needs steering by a decisive hand and that this c o u l d o n l y be a c c o m p l i s h e d by a single captain and an o b e d i e n t c r e w ? Is Chandler correct in saying that the properties of large-scale systems require centralized, hierarchical managerial control? T o a n s w e r s u c h questions, w e w o u l d have t o e x a m i n e i n s o m e detail the moral claims of practical necessity (including those advocated in the doctrines of

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e c o n o m i c s ) and w e i g h t h e m against moral claims of o t h e r sorts, for e x a m p l e , t h e n o t i o n t h a t it is g o o d for sailors to participate in t h e c o m m a n d of a s h i p or that workers have a right to be involved in m a k i n g and administering decisions in a factory. It is characteristic of societies based on large, c o m p l e x technological s y s t e m s , h o w e v e r , that moral reasons other than those of practical necessity appear increasingly obsolete, "idealistic," and irrelevant. W h a t e v e r claims o n e m a y w i s h to make on behalf of liberty, justice, or equality can be i m m e d i a t e l y n e u t r a l i z e d w h e n c o n f r o n t e d w i t h a r g u m e n t s t o the effect: " F i n e , b u t that's n o w a y to r u n a railroad" (or steel mill, or airline, or c o m m u n i c a t i o n s s y s t e m , a n d so on). H e r e we e n c o u n t e r an important quality in m o d e r n political discourse a n d i n t h e w a y p e o p l e c o m m o n l y t h i n k a b o u t w h a t m e a s u r e s are justified i n response to the possibilities technologies m a k e available. In m a n y instances, to s a y that s o m e t e c h n o l o g i e s are i n h e r e n t l y political is to say that certain w i d e l y accepted reasons of practical necessity—especially the need to maintain crucial technological systems as smoothly working entities—have tended to eclipse other sorts of moral and political reasoning. O n e attempt to salvage the a u t o n o m y of politics f r o m the bind of practical necessity involves the notion that conditions of h u m a n association found in the internal w o r k i n g s of technological s y s t e m s can easily be kept separate from the polity as a w h o l e . A m e r i c a n s have long rested content in the belief that arrangem e n t s of p o w e r and authority inside industrial corporations, public utilities, a n d t h e like h a v e little b e a r i n g o n p u b l i c i n s t i t u t i o n s , p r a c t i c e s , a n d i d e a s a t large. T h a t " d e m o c r a c y stops at t h e factory gates" w a s taken as a fact of life t h a t had nothing to do w i t h the practice of political freedom. B u t can the internal politics of t e c h n o l o g y and the politics of the w h o l e c o m m u n i t y be so easily separated? A recent study of A m e r i c a n business leaders, contemporary exemplars of Chandler's "visible hand of m a n a g e m e n t , " found t h e m remarkably impatient w i t h s u c h democratic scruples as "one m a n , one vote." If d e m o c r a c y d o e s n ' t w o r k f o r t h e f i r m , t h e m o s t c r i t i c a l i n s t i t u t i o n i n all o f s o c i e t y , A m e r i c a n executives ask, h o w w e l l c a n it be e x p e c t e d to w o r k for the g o v e r n m e n t of a nation—particularly w h e n that g o v e r n m e n t attempts to interfere with the a c h i e v e m e n t s of t h e firm? T h e authors of the report observe that patterns of a u t h o r i t y t h a t w o r k e f f e c t i v e l y i n t h e c o r p o r a t i o n b e c o m e for b u s i n e s s m e n " t h e desirable m o d e l against w h i c h to c o m p a r e political and e c o n o m i c re'ationships i n t h e rest o f s o c i e t y . " W h i l e s u c h f i n d i n g s are far f r o m c o n c l u s i v e , t h e y d o reflect a s e n t i m e n t i n c r e a s i n g l y c o m m o n in t h e land: w h a t d i l e m m a s like t h e e n e r g y crisis require is not a redistribution of w e a l t h or broader public participation but, rather, stronger, centralized p u b l i c m a n a g e m e n t — P r e s i d e n t Carter's p r o p o s a l for an E n e r g y M o b i l i z a t i o n B o a r d a n d t h e like. An especially vivid case in w h i c h the operational requirements of a technical s y s t e m m i g h t i n f l u e n c e t h e q u a l i t y o f p u b l i c life i s n o w a t issue i n d e b a t e s a b o u t the risks o f n u c l e a r p o w e r . A s t h e s u p p l y o f u r a n i u m for nuclear reactors r u n s out, a p r o p o s e d alternative fuel is t h e p l u t o n i u m generated as a b y - p r o d u c t in r e a c t o r c o r e s . W e l l - k n o w n o b j e c t i o n s t o p l u t o n i u m r e c y c l i n g f o c u s o n its u n a c c e p t a b l e e c o n o m i c c o s t s , its risks o f e n v i r o n m e n t a l c o n t a m i n a t i o n , a n d its d a n gers in regard to the international proliferation of nuclear w e a p o n s . B e y o n d these concerns, h o w e v e r , stands another less w i d e l y appreciated set of haza r d s — t h o s e that i n v o l v e the sacrifice o f civil liberties. T h e w i d e s p r e a d use o f 2 7

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p l u t o n i u m as a fuel increases t h e c h a n c e that this toxic s u b s t a n c e m i g h t be stolen by terrorists, organized crime, or other persons. T h i s raises the prospect, a n d n o t a trivial o n e , that e x t r a o r d i n a r y m e a s u r e s w o u l d h a v e to be t a k e n to safeguard p l u t o n i u m from theft and to recover it if ever the substance w e r e stolen. Workers in the nuclear industry as well as ordinary citizens outside could well become subject to background security checks, covert surveillance, wiretapping, informers, and e v e n e m e r g e n c y measures u n d e r martial law—all justified by the n e e d to safeguard p l u t o n i u m . Russell W. Ayres's study of the legal ramifications of p l u t o n i u m recycling concludes: "With the passage of time and the increase in the quantity of pluton i u m in existence will c o m e pressure to eliminate the traditional checks the courts and legislatures place on the activities of the executive and to develop a powerful central authority better able to enforce strict safeguards." He avers that " o n c e a q u a n t i t y of p l u t o n i u m h a d b e e n stolen, t h e c a s e for literally t u r n i n g the country upside d o w n to get it back w o u l d be o v e r w h e l m i n g . " Ayres anticipates and worries about the kinds of thinking that, I have argued, characterize i n h e r e n t l y p o l i t i c a l t e c h n o l o g i e s . I t i s still t r u e t h a t , i n a w o r l d i n w h i c h h u m a n b e i n g s m a k e a n d m a i n t a i n artificial s y s t e m s , n o t h i n g i s " r e q u i r e d " i n a n a b s o l u t e sense. N e v e r t h e l e s s , o n c e a c o u r s e of action is u n d e r w a y , o n c e artifacts like nuclear p o w e r plants have b e e n built and put in operation, the kinds of reasoni n g that justify t h e a d a p t a t i o n of social life to technical r e q u i r e m e n t s p o p up as [ spontaneously as flowers in the spring. In Ayres's w o r d s , " O n c e recycling be) g i n s a n d the risks of p l u t o n i u m theft b e c o m e real rather t h a n h y p o t h e t i c a l , t h e Y c a s e for g o v e r n m e n t a l i n f r i n g e m e n t of p r o t e c t e d rights w i l l s e e m c o m p e l l i n g . " After a certain point, those w h o cannot accept the hard requirements and i m peratives will be dismissed as dreamers and fools. 3 1

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T h e t w o varieties of interpretation I h a v e outlined indicate h o w artifacts can h a v e p o l i t i c a l q u a l i t i e s . I n t h e first i n s t a n c e w e n o t i c e d w a y s i n w h i c h s p e c i f i c / features in the d e s i g n or a r r a n g e m e n t of a device or s y s t e m c o u l d p r o v i d e a convenient means of establishing patterns of p o w e r and authority in a given ) setting. T e c h n o l o g i e s of this kind have a range of flexibility in the d i m e n s i o n s of - their material form. It is precisely b e c a u s e t h e y are flexible that their c o n s e q u e n c e s for s o c i e t y m u s t be u n d e r s t o o d w i t h reference to the social actors able t o i n f l u e n c e w h i c h d e s i g n s a n d a r r a n g e m e n t s are c h o s e n . I n t h e s e c o n d i n s t a n c e we examined w a y s in w h i c h the intractable properties of certain kinds of techn o l o g y are s t r o n g l y , p e r h a p s u n a v o i d a b l y , linked to particular institutionalized patterns o f p o w e r a n d a u t h o r i t y . H e r e , t h e initial c h o i c e a b o u t w h e t h e r o r n o t t o a d o p t s o m e t h i n g i s d e c i s i v e i n r e g a r d t o its c o n s e q u e n c e s . T h e r e a r e n o a l t e r n a t i v e p h y s i c a l d e s i g n s o r a r r a n g e m e n t s t h a t w o u l d m a k e a s i g n i f i c a n t difference; there are, f u r t h e r m o r e , no g e n u i n e possibilities for creative i n t e r v e n t i o n by different social s y s t e m s — c a p i t a l i s t or socialist—-that c o u l d c h a n g e the intractability o f t h e e n t i t y o r s i g n i f i c a n t l y alter t h e q u a l i t y o f its political effects. To k n o w w h i c h variety of interpretation is applicable in a given case is often w h a t is at stake in disputes, s o m e of t h e m passionate ones, a b o u t the m e a n i n g of t e c h n o l o g y for h o w we live. I h a v e a r g u e d a " b o t h / a n d " p o s i t i o n here, for it

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s e e m s t o m e that b o t h k i n d s o f u n d e r s t a n d i n g are applicable i n different c i r c u m stances. I n d e e d , it can h a p p e n that w i t h i n a particular c o m p l e x of t e c h n o l o g y — a s y s t e m o f c o m m u n i c a t i o n o r t r a n s p o r t a t i o n , for e x a m p l e — s o m e a s p e c t s m a y b e flexible i n their possibilities for s o c i e t y , w h i l e o t h e r a s p e c t s m a y b e (for better or worse) c o m p l e t e l y intractable. T h e t w o varieties of interpretation I have e x a m i n e d here can overlap and intersect at m a n y points. T h e s e are, of course, issues on w h i c h people can disagree. T h u s , s o m e p r o p o n e n t s o f e n e r g y f r o m r e n e w a b l e r e s o u r c e s n o w b e l i e v e t h e y h a v e a t last d i s c o v e r e d a set of intrinsically democratic, egalitarian, c o m m u n i t a r i a n technologies. In my best estimation, h o w e v e r , the social c o n s e q u e n c e s of building renewable e n e r g y s y s t e m s will surely d e p e n d on the specific configurations of b o t h h a r d w a r e a n d t h e social institutions created to bring that e n e r g y to us. It m a y b e t h a t w e w i l l find w a y s t o t u r n t h i s silk p u r s e i n t o a s o w ' s ear. B y c o m parison, advocates of the further d e v e l o p m e n t of nuclear p o w e r s e e m to believe t h a t t h e y a r e w o r k i n g o n a r a t h e r f l e x i b l e t e c h n o l o g y w h o s e a d v e r s e s o c i a l effects can be fixed by changing the design parameters of reactors and nuclear waste disposal systems. For reasons indicated above, I believe t h e m to be dead w r o n g in that faith. Y e s , we m a y be able to m a n a g e s o m e of the "risks" to public health and safety that nuclear p o w e r brings. But as society adapts to the more dangerous and apparently indelible features of nuclear p o w e r , w h a t will be the long-range toll i n h u m a n f r e e d o m ? My belief that we ought to attend m o r e closely to technical objects t h e m s e l v e s i s n o t t o s a y t h a t . w e c a n i g n o r e t h e c o n t e x t s i n w h i c h t h o s e o b j e c t s are situated. A ship at sea m a y w e l l require, as Plato and Engels insisted, a single captain and o b e d i e n t crew. B u t a ship out of service, parked at the dock, needs o n l y a caretaker. To u n d e r s t a n d w h i c h technologies and w h i c h c o n t e x t s are important to us, and w h y , is an enterprise that m u s t involve both the s t u d y of specific technical s y s t e m s and their history as well as a thorough grasp of the c o n c e p t s a n d c o n t r o v e r s i e s o f p o l i t i c a l t h e o r y . I n o u r t i m e s p e o p l e are o f t e n w i l l i n g t o m a k e drastic c h a n g e s i n the w a y t h e y live t o accord w i t h technological i n n o v a t i o n at t h e s a m e t i m e t h e y w o u l d resist similar kinds of c h a n g e s justified on political g r o u n d s . If for no o t h e r r e a s o n t h a n that, it is i m p o r t a n t for us to a c h i e v e a c l e a r e r v i e w o f t h e s e m a t t e r s t h a n h a s b e e n o u r h a b i t s o far.

REFERENCES

'I would like to thank Merritt Roe Smith, Leo Marx, James Miller, David Noble, Charles Weiner, Sherry Turkle, Loren Graham, Gail Stuart, Dick Sclove, and Stephen Graubard for their comments and criticisms on earlier drafts of this essay. My thanks also to Doris Morrison of the Agriculture Library of the University of California, Berkeley, for her bibliographical help. Lewis Mumford, "Authoritarian and Democratic Technics," Technology and Culture, 5 (1964): 1-8. Denis Hayes, Rays of Hops: The Transition to a Post-Petrokum World (New York: W. W. Norton, 1977), pp. 71, 159. David Lilienthal, T. V.A.: Democracy on the March (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1944), pp. 72-83. Daniel J. Boorstin, The Republic of Technology (New York: Harper & Row, 1978), p. 7. Langdon Winner, Autonomous Technology: Tecbnics-out-of-Control as a Theme in Political Thought (Cambridge, Mass.: M . I . T . Press, 1977). T h e meaning of "technology" I employ in this essay does not encompass some of the broader definitions of that concept found in contemporary literature, for example, the notion of "technique" 2

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in the writings of Jacques Ellul. My purposes here are more limited. For a discussion of the difficulties that arise in attempts to define "technology," see Ref. 6, pp. 8-12. Robert A. Caro, The Power Broker: Robert Moses and the Fall of New York (New York: Random House, 1974), pp. 318, 481, 514, 546, 951-958. Vbtd., p. 952. "Robert Ozanne, A Century of Labor-Management Relations at McCormick and International Harvester (Madison, Wis.: University of Wisconsin Press, 1967), p. 20. " T h e early history of the tomato harvester is told in Wayne D. Rasmussen, "Advances in American Agriculture: T h e Mechanical Tomato Harvester as a Case Study," Technology and Culture, 9 (1968): 531-543. A n d r e w Schmitz and David Seckler, "Mechanized Agriculture and Social Welfare; T h e Case of the Tomato Harvester," American Journal of Agricultural Economics, 52 (1970): 569-577. W i l l i a m H. Friedland and Amy Barton, "Tomato Technology," Society, 13:6 (September/October 1976). See also William H. Friedland, Social Sleepwalkers: Scientific and Technological Research in California Agriculture, University of California, Davis, Department of Applied Behavioral Sciences, Research Monograph N o . 13, 1974. "University of California Clip Sheet, 54:36, May 1, 1979. Friedland and Barton, "Tomato Technology." A history and critical analysis of agricultural research in the land-grant colleges is given in James Hightower, Hard Tomatoes, Hard Times (Cambridge, Mass.: Schenkman, 1978). "David Noble, "Social Choice in Machine Design: T h e Case of Automatically Controlled Machine Tools," in Case Studies in the Labor Process (New York: Monthly Review Press, forthcoming). Friedrich Engels, "On Authority" in The Marx-Engels Reader, 2nd ed., Robert Tucker (ed.) (New York: W. W. Norton, 1978), p. 731. "Ibid. Ibid., pp. 732, 731. K a r l Marx, Capital, vol. 1, 3rd ed., Samuel Moore and Edward Aveling (trans.) (New York: T h e Modern Library, 1906), p. 530. J e r r y Mander, Four Arguments for the Elimination of Television (New York: William Morrow, 1978), p. 44. S e e , for example, Robert Argue, Barbara Emanuel, and Stephen Graham, The Sun Builders: A People's Guide to Solar, Wind and Wood Energy in Canada (Toronto: Renewable Energy in Canada, 1978). "We think decentralization is an implicit component of renewable energy; this implies the decentralization of energy systems, communities and of power. Renewable energy doesn't require mammoth generation sources of disruptive transmission corridors. Our cities and towns, which have been dependent on centralized energy supplies, may be able to achieve some degree of autonomy, thereby controlling and administering their own energy needs" (p. 16). Alfred D. Chandler, Jr., The Visible Hand: The Managerial Revolution in American Business (Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap, Harvard University Press, 1977), p. 244. Ibid. Hbid., p. 500. "Leonard Silk and David Vogel, Ethics and Profits: The Crisis of Confidence in American Business (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1976), p. 191. Russel W. Ayres, "Policing Plutonium: T h e Civil Liberties Fallout," Harvard CivilRigbts-Civil Liberties Law Review, 10 (1975):443, 413-4, 374. 8

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Ecological Imperialism: The Overseas Migration of Western Europeans as a Biological Phenomenon Alfred W.

Crosby

Industrial man may in many respects be considere4 an aggressive and successful weed strangling other species and even the weaker members of its own. Stafford Lightman, "The Responsibilities of Intervention in Isolated Societies," Health and Disease in Tribal Societies

CO CO

EUROPEANS IN NORTH AMERICA, especially those with an interest in gardening and botany, are often stricken with fits of homesickness at the sight of certain plants which, like themselves, have somehow strayed thousands of miles eastward across the Atlantic. Vladimir Nabokov, the Russian exile, had such an experience on the mountain slopes of Oregon: Do you recognize that clover? Dandelions, I'or du pauvre? (Europe, nonetheless, is over.)

A century earlier the success of European weeds in America inspired Charles Darwin to goad the American botanist Asa Gray: "Does it not hurt your Yankee pride that we thrash you so confoundly? I am sure Mrs. Gray will sack up for your own weeds. Ask her whether they are not more honest, downright good sort of weeds." The common dandelion, I'or du pauvre, despite its ubiquity and its bright yellow flower, is not at all the most visible of the Old World immigrants in North America. Vladimir Nabokov was a prime example of the most visible kind: the Homo sapiens of European origin. Europeans and their descen1

i Page Stegner, ed., The Portable Nabokov (New York: Viking, 1968), p. 5 1 7 ; Francis Darwin, ed., Life and Letters of Charles Darwin (London: Murray, 1887), vol. 2., p. 3 9 1 . 103

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Alfred W. Crosby dants, who comprise the majority of human beings in North America and in a number of other lands outside of Europe, are the most spectacularly successful overseas migrants of all time. How strange it is to fjnd Englishmen, Germans, Frenchmen, Italians, and Spaniards comfortably ensconced in places with names like Wollongong (Australia), Rotoriia (New Zealand), and Saskatoon (Canada), where obviously other peoples should dominate, as they must have at one time. None of the major genetic groupings of humankind is as oddly distributed about the world as European, especially western European, whites. Almost all the peoples we call Mongoloids live in the single contiguous land mass of Asia. Black Africans are divided between three continents - their homeland and North and South America - but most of them are concentrated in their original latitudes, the tropics, facing each other across one ocean. European whites were all recently concentrated in Europe, but in the last few centuries have burst out, as energetically as if from a burning building, and have created vast settlements of their kind in the South Temperate Zone and North Temperate Zone (excepting Asia, a continent already thoroughly and irreversibly tenanted). In Canada and the United States together they amount to nearly 90 percent of the population; in Argentina and Uruguay together to over 95 percent; in Australia to 98 percent; and in New Zealand to 90 percent. The only nations in the Temperate Zones outside of Asia which do not have enormous majorities of European whites are Chile, with a population of two-thirds mixed Spanish and Indian stock, and South Africa,-where blacks outnumber whites six to one. How odd that these two, so many thousands of miles from Europe, should be exceptions in not being predominantly pure European.* Europeans have conquered Canada, the United States, Argentina, Uruguay, Australia, and New Zealand not just militarily and economically and technologically - as they did India, Nigeria, Mexico, Peru, and other tropical lands, whose native people have long since expelled or interbred with and even absorbed the invaders. In the Temperate Zone lands listed above Europeans conquered and triumphed demographically. These, for the sake of convenience, we will call the Lands of the Demographic Takeover. There is a long tradition of emphasizing the contrasts between Europeans and Americans - a tradition honored by such names as Henry James and Frederick Jackson Turner - but the vital question is really why-Americans are so European. And why the Argentinians, the Uruguayans, the Australians, and the New Zealanders are so European in the obvious genetic sense. The reasons for the relative failure of the European demographic takeover in the tropics are clear. In tropical Africa, until recently, Europeans died in 2 The World Almanac and Book of Facts 1978 (New York: Newspaper Enterprise Association, 1978), passim.

droves of the fevers; in tropical America they died almost as fast of the same diseases, plus a few native American additions. Furthermore, in neither region did European agricultural techniques, crops, and animals prosper. Europeans did try to found colonies for settlement, rather than merely exploitation, but they failed or achieved only partial success in the hot lands. The Scots left their bones as monument to their short-lived colony at Darien at the turn of the eighteenth century. The English Puritans who skipped Massachusetts Bay Colony to go to Providence Island in the Caribbean Sea did not even achieve a permanent settlement, much less a Commonwealth of God. The Portuguese who went to northeastern Brazil created viable settlements, but only by perching themselves on top of first a population of native Indian laborers and then, when these faded away, a population of laborers imported from Africa. They did achieve a demographic takeover, but only by interbreeding with their servants. The Portuguese in Angola, who ^helped supply those servants, never had a breath of a chance to achieve a demographic takeover.' There was much to repel and little to attract the mass ,- of Europeans to the tropics, and so they stayed home or went to the lands where life was healthier, labor more rewarding, and where white immigrants, by their very number, encouraged more immigration. \ In the cooler lands, the colonies of the Demographic Takeover, Europeans ) achieved very rapid population growth by means of immigration, by ( increased life span, and by maintaining very high birthrates. Rarely has population expanded more rapidly than it did in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries in these lands. It is these lands, especially the United States, that enabled Europeans and their overseas offspring to expand from something like 18 percent of the human species in 1 6 5 0 to well over 30 percent in 1 9 0 0 . Today 670 million Europeans live in Europe, and 2 5 0 million or so other Europeans - genetically as European as any left behind in the Old World - live in the Lands of the Demographic Takeover, an ocean or so from home.i What the Europeans have done with unprecedented ;

3 Philip D. Curtin, "Epidemiology and the Slave Trade," Political Science Quarterly 83 (June 1968), 1 9 0 - 1 1 6 passim; John Prebble, The Darien Disaster (New York: Holt, Rinehart 8c Winston, 1968), pp. 296, 300; Charles M. Andrews, The Colonial Period of American History (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1934), vol. 1, n. 497; Gilberto Freyre, The Masters and the Slaves, trans. Samuel Putnam (New York: Knopf, 1946), passim; Donald L. Wiedner, A History of Africa South of the Sahara (New York: Vintage Books, 1964), 49-5'J Stuart B. Schwartz, "Indian Labor and New World Plantations: European Demands and Indian Responses in Northeastern Brazil," American Historical Review 83 (February 1978): 4 3 - 7 9 passim. 4 Marcel R. Reinhard, Histoire de la population modiale de 1700 a 1948 (n.p.: Editions Domat-Montchrestien, n.d.), pp. 3 3 9 - 4 1 1 , 4 2 8 - 3 1 ; G. F. McCleary, Peopling the British Commonwealth (London: Farber and Farber, n.d.), pp. 83, 94, 1 0 9 - 1 0 ; R. R. Palmer and Joel Colton, A History of the Modern World (New York: Knopf, 1965), p. 560; World Almanac i 8, pp. 34, 439, 497, 5 1 3 , 590. 97

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Alfred W. Crosby success in the past few centuries can accurately be described by a term from apiculture: They have swarmed. They swarmed to lands which were populated at the time of European arrival by peoples as physically capable of rapid increase as the Europeans, and yet who are now small minorities in their homelands and sometimes no more than relict populations. These population explosions among colonial Europeans of the past few centuries coincided with population crashes among the aborigines. If overseas Europeans have historically been less fatalistic and grim than their relatives in Europe, it is because they have viewed the histories of their nations very selectively. When he returned from his world voyage on the Beagle in the 1 8 3 0 s , Charles Darwin, as a biologist rather than a historian, wrote, "Wherever the European has trod, death seems to pursue the aboriginal."' Any respectable theory which attempts to explain the Europeans' demographic triumphs has to provide explanations for at least two phenomena. The first is the decimation and demoralization of the aboriginal populations of Canada, the United States, Argentina, and others. The obliterating defeat of these populations was not simply due to European technological superiority. The Europeans who settled in temperate South Africa seemingly had the same advantages as those who settled in Virginia and New South Wales, and yet how different was their fate. The Bantu-speaking peoples, who now overwhelmingly outnumber the whites in South Africa, were superior to their American, Australian, and New Zealand counterparts in that they possessed iron weapons, but how much more inferior to a musket or a rifle is a stone-pointed spear than an iron-pointed spear? The Bantu have prospered demographically not because of their numbers at the time of first contact with whites, which were probably not greater per square mile than those of the Indians east of the Mississippi River. Rather, the Bantu have prospered because they survived military conquest, avoided the conquerors, or became their indispensable servants — and in the long run because they reproduced faster than the whites. In contrast, why did so few of the natives of the Lands of the Demographic Takeover survive? Second, we must explain the stunning, even awesome success of European agriculture, that is, the European way of manipulating the environment in the Lands of the Demographic Takeover. The difficult progress of the European frontier in the Siberian taiga or the Brazilian sertao or the South African veldt contrasts sharply with its easy, almost fluid advance in North America. Of course, the pioneers of North America would never have characterized their progress as easy: Their lives were filled with danger, deprivation, and unremitting labor; but as a group they always succeeded in 5 Charles Darwin, The Voyage of the Beagle (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday Anchor Books, 1961), pp. 4 3 3 - 4 .

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taming whatever portion of North America they wanted within a few decades and usually a good deal less time. Many individuals among them failed — they were driven mad by blizzards and dust storms, lost their crops to locusts and their flocks to cougars and wolves, or lost their scalps to understandably inhospitable Indians — but as a group they always succeeded - and in terms of human generations, very quickly. In attempting to explain these two phenomena, let us examine four categories of organisms deeply involved in European expansion: ( 1 ) human beings; (2.) animals closely associated with human beings — both the desirable animals like horses and cattle and undesirable varmints like rats and mice; (3) pathogens or microorganisms that cause disease in humans; and (4) weeds. Is there a pattern in the histories of these groups which suggests an overall explanation for the phenomenon of the Demographic Takeover or which at least suggests fresh paths of inquiry? Europe has exported something in excess of sixty million people in the past few hundred years. Great Britain alone exported over twenty million. The great mass of these white emigrants went to the United States, Argentina, Canada, Australia, Uruguay, and New Zealand. (Other areas to absorb comparable quantities of Europeans were Brazil and Russia east of the Urals. These would qualify as Lands of the Demographic Takeover except that large fractions of their populations are non-European.)* In stark contrast, very few aborigines of the Americas, Australia, or New Zealand ever went to Europe. Those who did often died not long after arrival.'' The fact that the flow of human migration was almost entirely from Europe to her colonies and not vice versa is not startling — or very enlightening. Europeans controlled overseas migration, and Europe needed to export, not import, labor. But this pattern of one-way migration is significant in that it reappears in other connections. The vast expanses of forests, savannas, and steppes in the Lands of the Demographic Takeover were inundated by animals from the Old World, chiefly from Europe. Horses, cattle, sheep, goats, and pigs have for hundreds of years been among the most numerous of the quadrupeds of these lands, which were completely lacking in these species at the time of first contact with the Europeans. By 1 6 0 0 enormous feral herds of horses and cattle surged over the pampas of the Rio de la Plata (today's Argentina and Uruguay) and over the plains of northern Mexico. By the beginning of the seventeenth century packs of Old World dogs gone wild were among the predators of these herds. 8

6 William Woodruff, Impact of Western Man (New York: St. Martin's, 1967), 106-8. 7 Carolyn T. Foreman, Indians Abroad (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1943), passim. 8 Alfred W. Crosby, The Columbian Exchange (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood, 1972), pp. 107

Alfred W. Crosby

Ecological

In the forested country of British North America population explosions among imported animals were also spectacular, but only by European standards, not by those of Spanish America. In 1 7 0 0 in Virginia feral hogs, said one witness, "swarm like vermaine upon the Earth," and young gentlemen were entertaining themselves by hunting wild horses of the inland counties. In Carolina the herds of cattle were "incredible, being from one to two thousand head in one Man's Possession." In the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries die advancing European frontier from New England to the Gulf of Mexico was preceded into Indian territory by an avant-garde of semiwild herds of hogs and cattle tended, now and again, by semiwild herdsmen, white and black.' The first English settlers landed in Botany Bay, Australia, in January .of 1 7 8 8 with livestock, most of it from the Cape of Good Hope. The pigs and poultry thrived; the cattle did well enough; the sheep, the future source of the colony's good fortune, died fast. Within a few months two bulls and four cows strayed away. By 1 8 0 4 the wild herds they founded numbered from three to five thousand head and were in possession of much of the best land between the settlements and the Blue Mountains. If they had ever found their way through the mountains to the grasslands beyond, the history of Australia in the first decades of the nineteenth century might have been one dominated by cattle rather than sheep. As it is, the colonial government wanted the land the wild bulls so ferociously defended, and considered the growing practice of convicts running away to live off the herds as a threat to the whole colony; so the adult cattle were shot and salted down and the calves captured and tamed. The English settlers imported woolly sheep from Europe and sought out the interior pastures for them. The animals multiplied rapidly, and when Darwin made his visit to New South Wales in 1 8 3 6 , there were about a million sheep there for him to see. The arrival of Old World livestock probably affected New Zealand more radically than any other of the Lands of the Demographic Takeover. Cattle, horses, goats, pigs and — in this land of few or no large predators — even the 10

Footnote 8 (continued) 82-88; Alexander Gillespie, Gleanings and Remarks Collected during Many Months of Residence at Buenos Aires (Leeds: B. DeWhirst, 1 8 1 8 ) , p. 1 3 6 ; Oscar Schmieder, "Alteration- of the Argentine Pampa in the Colonial Period," University of California Publications in Geography 2 (27 September 1927): n. 3 1 1 . 9 Robert Beverley, The History and Present State of Virginia (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1947), pp. 1 5 3 , 3 1 2 , 3 1 8 ; John Lawson, A New Voyage to Carolina (n. p.: Readex Microprint Corp., 1966), p. 4; Frank L. Owsley, "The Pattern of Migration and Settlement of the Southern Frontier," Journal of Southern History n (May 1945): 147-75-

10 Commonwealth of Australia, Historical Records of Australia (Sydney: Library Committee of the Commonwealth Parliament, 1914), ser. 1, vol: 1, p. 550; vol. 7, pp. 379-80; vol. 8, pp. 150—1; vol. 9, pp. 349, 7 1 4 , 831; vol. 10, pp. 92, 280, 682; vol. 20, p. 839.

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usually timid sheep went wild. In New Zealand herds of feral farm animals were practicing the ways of their remote ancestors as late as the 1 9 4 0 s and no doubt still run free. Most of the sheep, though, stayed under human control, and within a decade of Great Britain's annexation of New Zealand in 1 8 4 0 , her new acquisition was home to a quarter million sheep. In 1 9 7 4 New Zealand had over fiftyfive million sheep, about twenty times more sheep than people. In the Lands of the Demographic Takeover the European pioneers were accompanied and often preceded by their domesticated animals, walking sources of food, leather, fiber, power, and wealth, and these animals often adapted more rapidly to the new surroundings and reproduced much more rapidly than their masters. To a certain extent, the success of Europeans as colonists was automatic as soon as they put their tough, fast, fertile, and intelligent animals ashore. The latter were sources of capital that sought out their own sustenance, improvised their own protection against the weather, fought their own battles against predators and, if their masters were smart enough to allow calves, colts, and lambs to accumulate, could and often did show the world the amazing possibilities of compound interest. The honey bee is the one insect of worldwide importance which human beings have domesticated, if we may use the word in a broad sense. Many species of bees and other insects produce honey, but the one which does so in greatest quantity and which is easiest to control is a native of the Mediterranean area and the Middle East, the honey bee {Apis mellifera). The European has probably taken this sweet and short-tempered servant to every colony he ever established, from Arctic to Antarctic Circle, and the honey bee has always been one of the first immigrants to set off on its own. Sometimes the advance of the bee frontier could be very rapid: The first hive in Tasmania swarmed sixteen times in the summer of 1 8 3 2 . . Thomas Jefferson tells us that the Indians of North America called the honey bees "English flies," and St. John de Crevecoeur, his contemporary, wrote that "The Indians look upon them with an evil eye, and consider their progress into die interior of the continent as an omen of the white man's approach: thus, as they discover the bees, the news of the event, passing from mouth to mouth, spreads sadness and consternation on all sides." ' 11

11

1

n Andrew H. Clark, The Invasion of New Zealand by People, Plants, and Animals (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 1949), p. 190; David Wallechinsky, Irving Wallace, and A. Wallace, The Book of Lists (New York: Bantam, 1978), pp. 1 2 9 - 3 0 . 12 Remy Chauvin, Traite de biologie de I'abeille (Paris: Masson et Cie, 1968), vol. 1, pp. 38-9; James Backhouse, A Narrative of a Visit to the Australian Colonies (London: Hamilton, Adams and Co., 1834), p. 23. 13 Merrill D. Peterson, ed., The Portable Thomas Jefferson (New York: Viking, 1975), p. 1 1 1 ; Michel-Guillaume St. Jean de Crevecoeur, Journey into Northern Pennsylvania and the State of New York, trans. Clarissa S. Bostelmann (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1964), p. 166. 109

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Alfred W. Crosby Domesticated creatures that traveled from the Lands of the Demographic Takeover to Europe are few. Australian aborigines and New Zealand Maoris had a few tame dogs, unimpressive by Old World standards and unwanted by the whites. Europe happily accepted the American Indians' turkeys and guinea pigs, but had no need for their dogs, llamas, and alpacas. Again the explanation is simple: Europeans, who controlled the passage of large animals across the oceans, had no need to reverse the process. It is interesting and perhaps significant, though, that the exchange was just as one-sided for varmints, the small mammals whose migrations C Europeans often tried to stop. None of the American or Australian or New / Zealand equivalents of rats have become established in Europe, but Old World varmints, especially rats, have colonized right alongside the Europeans in the Temperate Zones. Rats of assorted sizes, some of them almost surely European immigrants, were tormenting Spanish Americans by at least the end of the sixteenth century. European rats established a beachhead in Jamestown, Virginia, as early as 1 6 0 9 , when they almost starved out the colonists by eating their food stores. In Buenos Aires the increase in rats kept pace with that of cattle, according to an early nineteenth-century witness. European rats proved as aggressive as the Europeans in New Zealand, where they completely replaced the local rats in the North Islands as early as the 1 8 4 0 s . Those poor creatures are probably completely extinct today or exist only in tiny relict populations. -* C The European rabbits are not usually thought of as varmints, but where I there are neither diseases nor predators to hold down their numbers they " can become the worst of pests. In 1 8 5 9 a few members of the species Orytolagus cuniculus (the scientific name for the protagonists of all the Peter Rabbits of literature) were released in southeast Australia. Despite massive efforts to stop them, they reproduced - true to their reputation and spread rapidly all the way across Australia's southern half to the Indian Ocean. In 1 9 5 0 the rabbit population of Australia was estimated at 5 0 0 million, and they were outcompeting the nation's most important domesticated animals, sheep, for the grasses and herbs. They have been brought under control, but only by means of artificially fomenting an epidemic of V_ myxomatosis, a lethal American rabbit disease. The story of rabbits and myxomatosis in New Zealand is similar. s \ Europe, in return for her varmints, has received muskrats and gray 1

1

14 Bernabe Cobo, Obras (Madrid: Atlas Ediciones, 1964), vol. 1, pp. 3 5 0 - 1 ; Edward Arber, ed., Travels and Works of Captain John Smith (New York: Burt Franklin, n. d.), vol. 2, p. xcv; K. A. Wodzicki, Introduced Mammals of New Zealand (Wellington: Department of Scientific and Industrial Research, 1950), pp. 89-91. 15 Frank Fenner and F. N. Ratcliffe, Myxomatosis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1965), pp. 9 , 1 1 , 1 7 , 2 2 - 2 . 3 ; Frank Fenner, "The Rabbit Plague," Scientific American 190 (February 1954): 30-5; Wodzicki, Introduced Mammals, pp. 1 0 7 - 1 4 1 .

no

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]_ squirrels and little else from America, and nothing at all of significance from Australia or New Zealand, and we might well wonder if muskrats and squirrels really qualify as varmints. * As with other classes of organisms, the exchange has been a one-way street. ) None of Europe's emigrants were as immediately and colossally successI ful as its pathogens, the microorganisms that make human beings ill, cripple I them, and kill them. Whenever and wherever Europeans crossed the oceans and settled, the pathogens they carried created prodigious epidemics of smallpox, measles, tuberculosis, influenza, and a number of other diseases. It was this factor, more than any other, that Darwin had in mind as he wrote of the Europeans' deadly tread. The pathogens transmitted by the Europeans, unlike the Europeans themselves or most of their domesticated animals, did at least as well in the tropics as in the temperate Lands of the Demographic Takeover. Epidemics devastated Mexico, Peru, Brazil, Hawaii, and Tahiti soon after the Europeans made the first contact with aboriginal populations. Some of these populations were able to escape demographic defeat because their initial numbers were so large that a small fraction was still sufficient to maintain \ occupation of, if not title to, the land, and also because the mass of Europeans were never attracted to the tropical lands, not even if they were partially vacated. In the Lands of the Demographic Takeover the aboriginal populations were too sparse to rebound from the onslaught of disease or were inundated by European immigrants before they could recover. The First Strike Force of the white immigrants to the Lands of the Demographic Takeover were epidemics. A few examples from scores of possible examples follow. Smallpox first arrived in the Rio de la Plata region in 1 5 5 8 or 1 5 6 0 and killed, according to one chronicler possibly more interested in effect than accuracy, "more than a hundred thousand Indians" of the heavy riverine population there. An epidemic of plague or typhus decimated the Indians of the New England coast immediately before the founding of Plymouth. Smallpox or something similar struck the aborigines of Australia's Botany Bay in 1 7 8 9 , killed half, and rolled on into the interior. Some unidentified disease or diseases spread through the Maori tribes of the North Island of New Zealand in the 1 7 9 0 s , killing so many in a number of villages that the survivors were not able to bury the dead. 7 1

J

16 Charles S. Elton, The Ecology of Invasions (Trowbridge and London: English Language Book Society, 1 9 7 1 ) , pp. £4-5, z8, 73, 1 1 3 . 17 Juan Lopez de Velasco, Geografia y descripcidn universal de las Indias (Madrid: Establecimiento Topografico de Fortanet, 1894), P- 55*> Oscar Schmieder, "The Pampa A Natural and Culturally Induced Grassland?" University of California, Publications in Geography (27 September 1 9 1 7 ) : 266; Sherburne F. Cook, "The Significance of Disease in the Extinction of the New England Indians," Human Biology 14 (September 1975): 486-91; J. H. L Cumpston, The History of Smallpox in Australia, 1788-1908 (MelIII

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Ecological

After a series of such lethal and rapidly moving epidemics, then came the slow, unspectacular but thorough cripplers and killers like venereal disease and tuberculosis. In conjunction with the large numbers of white settlers these diseases were enough to smother aboriginal chances of recovery. First the blitzkrieg, then the mopping up. The greatest of the killers in these lands was probably smallpox. The exception is New Zealand, the last of these lands to attract permanent European settlers. They came to New Zealand after the spread of vaccination in Europe, and so were poor carriers. As of the 1 8 5 0 s smallpox still had not come ashore, and by that time two-thirds of the Maori had been vaccinated. The tardy arrival of smallpox in these islands may have much to do with the fact that the Maori today comprise a larger percentage. (9 percent) of their country's population than that of any other aboriginal people in any European colony or former European colony in either Temperate Zone, save only South Africa. American Indians bore the full brunt of smallpox, and its mark is on their history and folklore. The Kiowa of the southern plains of the United States have a legend in which a Kiowa man meets Smallpox on the plain, riding a horse. The man asks, "Where do you come from and what do you do and why are you here?" Smallpox answers, "I am one with the white men - they are my people as the Kiowas are yours. Sometimes I travel ahead of them and sometimes behind. But I am always their companion and you will find me in their camps and their houses." "What can you do," the Kiowa asks. "I bring death," Smallpox replies. "My breath causes children to wither like young plants in spring snow. I bring destruction. No matter how beautiful a woman is, once she has looked at me she becomes as ugly as death. And to men I bring not death alone, but the destruction of their children and the blighting of their wives. The strongest of warriors go down before me. No people who have looked on me will ever be the same." ? In return for the barrage of diseases that Europeans directed overseas, they received little in return. Australia and New Zealand provided no new strains of pathogens to Europe - or none that attracted attention. And of America's native diseases none had any real influence on the Old World — with the likely exception of venereal syphilis, which almost certainly existed 18

( '

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^ \ (

Footnote 17 (continued) bourne: Albert J. Mullet, Government Printer, 1 9 1 4 ) , pp. 1 4 7 - 9 ; Harrison M. Wright, New Zealand, 1769-1840 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1959), p. 62. For further discussion of this topic, see Crosby, Columbia Exchange, chaps. 1 and 2, and Henry F. Dobyns, Native American Historical Demography: A Critical Bibliography (Bloomington: Indiana University Press/Newberry Library, 1976). 18 Arthur C. Thomson, The Story of New Zealand (London: Murray, 1859), vol. 1, p. 2 1 2 . 19 Alice Marriott and Carol K. Rachlin, American Indian Mythology (New York: New American Library, 1968), pp. 1 7 4 - 5 . 112.

Imperialism

in the New World before 1 4 9 2 and probably did not occur in its present form in the Old World. Weeds are rarely history makers, for they are not as spectacular in their effects as pathogens. But they, too, influence our lives and migrate over the world despite human wishes. As such, like varmints and germs, they are better indicators of certain realities than human beings or domesticated animals. The term "weed" in modern botanical usage refers to any type of plant which - because of especially large numbers of seeds produced per plant, or especially effective means of distributing those seeds, or especially tough roots and rhizomes from which new plants can grow, or especially tough seeds that survive the alimentary canals of animals to be planted with their droppings - spreads rapidly and outcompetes others on disturbed, bare soil. Weeds are plants that tempt the botanist to use such anthropomorphic words as "aggressive" and "opportunistic." Many of the most successful weeds in the well-watered regions of the Lands of the Demographic Takeover are of European or Eurasian origin. French and Dutch and English farmers brought with them to North America their worst enemies, weeds, "to exhaust the land, hinder and damnify the Crop." By the last third of the seventeenth century at least twenty different types were widespread enough in New England to attract the attention of the English visitor, John Josselyn, who identified couch grass, dandelion, nettles, mallbwes, knot grass, shepherd's purse, sow thistle, and clot burr and others. One of the most aggressive was plantain, which the Indians called "English-Man's Foot." European weeds rolled west with the pioneers, in some cases spreading almost explosively. As of 1 8 2 3 corn chamomile and maywood had spread up to but not across the Muskingum River in Ohio. Eight years later they were over the river. 3 The most prodigiously imperialistic of the weeds in the eastern half of the United States and Canada were probably Kentucky bluegrass and white clover. They spread so fast after the entrance of Europeans into a given area that there is some suspicion that they may have been present in pre-Colombian America, although the earliest European 20

22

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20 Crosby, Columbian Exchange, pp. 1 2 2 - 6 4 , passim. 21 Jared Eliot, "The Tilling of the Land, 1760," in Agriculture in the United States: A Documentary History, ed. Wayne D. Rasmussen (New York: Random House, 1975), vol. 1 , p. 1 9 2 . 22 John Josselyn, New Englands Rarities Discovered (London: G. Widdowes at the Green Dragon in St. Paul's Church-yard, 1672), pp. 85, 86; Edmund Berkeley and Dorothy S. Berkeley, eds., The Reverend John Clayton (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 1965), p. 24.

23 Lewis D. de Schweinitz, "Remarks on the Plants of Europe Which Have Become Naturalized in a More or Less Degree, in the United States," Annals Lyceum of Natural History of New York, vol. 3 (i8}z) i8z8-x8}6, 1 5 5 . 113

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Alfred W. Crosby accounts do not mention them. Probably brought to the Appalachian area by the French, these two kinds of weeds preceded the English settlers there and kept up with the movement westward until reaching the plains across the Mississippi. * Old World plants set up business on their own on the Pacific coast of North America just as soon as the Spaniards and Russians did. The climate of coastal southern California is much the same as that of the Mediterranean, and the Spaniards who came to California in the eighteenth century brought their own Mediterranean weeds with them via Mexico: wild oats, fennel, wild radishes. These plants, plus those brought in later by the Forty-niners, muscled their way to dominance in the coastal grasslands. These immigrant weeds followed Old World horses, cattle, and sheep into California's interior prairies and took over there as well. * The region of Argentina and Uruguay was almost as radically altered in its flora as in its fauna by the coming of the Europeans. The ancient Indian practice, taken up immediately by the whites, of burning off the old grass of the p a m p a every year, as well as the trampling and cropping to the ground of indigenous grasses and forbs by the thousands of imported quadrupeds who also changed the nature of the soil with their droppings, opened the whole countryside to European plants. In the 1 7 8 0 s Felix de Azara observed that the pampa, already radically altered, was changing as he watched. European weeds sprang up around every cabin, grew up along roads, and pressed into the open steppe. Today only a quarter of the plants growing wild in the pampa are native, and in the well-watered eastern portions, the "natural" ground cover consists almost entirely of Old World grasses and clovers. * The invaders were not, of course, always desirable. When Darwin visited Uruguay in 1 8 3 z, he found large'expanses, perhaps as much as hundreds of 2

1

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24 Lyman Carrier and Katherine S. Bort, "The History of Kentucky Bluegrass and White Clover in the United States," Journal of the American Society of Agronomy 8 (1916): 256-66; Robert W. Schery, "The Migration of a Plant: Kentucky Bluegrass Followed Settlers to die New World," Natural History 74 (December 1965): 4 3 - 4 ; G. W. Dunbar, ed., "Henry Clay on Kentucky Bluegrass," Agricultural History 51 (July 1977): 522. 25 Edgar Anderson, Plants, Man, and Life (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1967), pp. 1 2 - 1 5 ; E ' S. Bakker, An Island Called California (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1971), pp. 1 5 0 - 2 ; R. W. Allard, "Generic Systems Associated with Colonizing Ability in Predominantly Self-Pollinated Species," in The Genetics of Colonizing Species, ed. H. G. Baker and G. Ledyard Stebbins (New York: Academic Press, 1965), p. 50; M. W. Talbot, H. M. Biswell, and A. L. Hormay, "Fluctuations in the Annual Vegetation of California," Ecology 20 (July 1939):

Imperialism

square miles, monopolized by the immigrant wild artichoke and transformed into a prickly wilderness fit neither for man nor his animals. ? The onslaught of foreign and specifically European plants on Australia began abrupdy in 1 7 7 8 because the first expedition that sailed from Britain to Botany Bay carried some livestock and considerable quantities of seed. By May of 1 8 0 3 over two hundred foreign plants, most of them European, had been purposely introduced and planted in New South Wales, undoubtedly along with a number of weeds. - Even today so-called clean seed characteristically contains some weed seeds, and this was much more so two hundred years ago. By and large, Australia's north has been too tropical and her interior too hot and dry for European weeds and grasses, but much of her southern coasts and Tasmania have been hospitable indeed to Europe's willful flora. Thus, many — often a majority — of the most aggressive plants in the temperate humid regions of North America, South America, Australia, and New Zealand are of European origin. It may be true that in every broad expanse of the world today where there are dense populations, with whites in the majority, there are also dense populations of European weeds. Thirty-five of eighty-nine weeds listed in 1 9 5 3 as common in the state of New York are European. Approximately 60 percent of Canada's worst weeds are introductions from Europe. Most of New Zealand's weeds are from the same source, as are many, perhaps most, of the weeds of southern Australia's well-watered coasts. Most of the European plants that Josselyn listed as naturalized in New England in the seventeenth century are growing wild today in Argentina and Uruguay, and are among the most widespread and troublesome of all weeds in those countries. ' In return for this largesse of pestiferous plants, the Lands of the Demographic Takeover have provided Europe with only a few equivalents. The Canadian water weed jammed Britain's nineteenth-century waterways, and North America's horseweed and burnweed have spread in Europe's empty lots, and South America's flowered galinsoga has thrived in her gardens. But the migratory flow of a whole group of organisms between Europe and the Lands of the Demographic Takeover has been almost entirely in one direction.' Englishman's foot still marches in seven league jackboots across every European colony of settlement, but very few American or Australian 1

2 8

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na

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26 Felix de Azara, Descripcidn 6 historia del Paraguay y del Rt'o de la Plata (Madrid: Imprenta de Sanchez, 1847), vol. I, 5 7 - 8 ; Schmieder, "Alteration of the Argentine Pampa," pp. 310-11.

114

17 Darwin, Voyage of the Beagle, pp. 119—20. 28 Historical Records of Australia, set. 1, vol. 4, pp. 2 3 4 - 4 1 . 29 Edward Salisbury, Weeds and Aliens (London: Collins, 1961), p. 87; Angel Julio Cabrera, Manual de la flora de los alrededores de Buenos Aires (Buenos Aires: Editorial Acme S. A., 1953), passim. 30 Elton, Ecology of Invasions, p. 1 1 5 ; Hugo Ilitis, "The Story of Wild Garlic," Scientific Monthly 68 (February 1949): 1 2 2 - 4 .

us

Ecological

Alfred W. Crosby or New Zealand invaders stride the waste lands and unkempt backyards of Europe.

Imperialism

clover killed off the fern, and the European dog the Maori dog — as the Maori rat was destroyed by the Pakeha (European) rat — so our people, also, will be gradually supplanted and exterminated by the Europeans.' The future was not quite so grim as he prophesied, but we must admire his grasp of the complexity and magnitude of the threat looming over his people and over the ecosystem of winch they were part. 1

European and Old World human beings, domesticated animals, varmints, pathogens, and weeds all accomplished demographic takeovers of their own in the temperate, well-watered regions of North and South America, Australia, and New Zealand. They crossed oceans and Europeanized vast territories, often in informal cooperation with each other — the farmer and his animals destroying native plant cover, making way for imported grasses and forbs, many of which proved more nourishing to domesticated animals than die native equivalents; Old World pathogens, sometimes carried by Old World varmints, wiping out vast numbers of aborigines, opening the way for the advance of the European frontier, exposing more and more native peoples to more and more pathogens. The classic example of symbiosis between European colonists, their animals, and plants comes from New Zealand. Red clover, a good forage for sheep, could not seed itself and did not spread without being annually sown until the Europeans imported the bumblebee. Then the plant and insect spread widely, the first providing the second with food, the second carrying pollen from blossom to blossom for the first, and the sheep eating the clover and compensating the human beings for their effort with mutton and wool.' There have been few such stories of the success in Europe of organisms from the Lands of the Demographic Takeover, despite the obvious fact that for every ship that went from Europe to those lands, another traveled in the opposite direction. The demographic triumph of Europeans in the temperate colonies is one part of a biological and ecological takeover which could not have been accomplished by human beings alone, gunpowder notwithstanding. We must at least try to analyze the impact and success of all the immigrant organisms together - the European portmanteau of often mutually supportive plants, animals, and microlife which in its entirety can be accurately described as aggressive and opportunistic, an ecosystem simplified by ocean crossings and honed by thousands of years of competition in the unique environment created by the Old World Neolithic Revolution. The human invaders and their descendants have consulted their egos, rather than ecologists, for explanations of their triumphs. But the human victims, the aborigines of the Lands of the Demographic Takeover, knew better, knew they were only one of many species being displaced and replaced; knew they were victims of something more irresistible and awesome than the spread of capitalism or Christianity. One Maori, at the nadir of the history of his race, knew these things when he said, "As the

32 James Bonwick, The Last of the Tasmanians (New York: Johnson Reprint Co., 1970), p. 380.

1

31 Otto E. Plath, Bumblebees and Their Ways (New York: Macmillan, 1934), p. 1 1 5 . Il6

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CHAPTER

II

Edison the Hedgehog: Invention a n d Development

Q

the Greek poet Archilochus, Isaiah Berlin wrote in The Hedgehog and the Fox: "The fox knows many things, but the hedgehog knows one big thing." Hedgehogs, according to Berlin, are those "who relate everything to a single central vision, one system less or more coherent or articulate." Foxes, in contrast, pursue many ends, ends that are "often unrelated and even contradictory." Berlin counted Dante, Plato, Lucretius, Pascal, Hegel, Dostoyevsky, Nietzsche, Ibsen, and Proust among the hedgehogs. Thomas Edison's name should be added to the list. Edison invented systems, including an electric light system that took form as the Pearl Street generating station and distribution network of the Edison Electric Illuminating Company of New York, now known as the Consolidated Edison Company. Edison focused on one level of the process of technological change—invention—but in order to relate everything to a single, central vision, he had to reach out beyond his special competence to research, develop, finance, and manage his inventions. Because of this organizational, system-building drive, he is known as an inventor-entrepreneur. Edison was a holistic conceptualizer and determined solver of the problems associated with the growth of systems. The history of Edison system building, therefore, is also a history of ideas and a study of problem solving. Edison's concepts grew out of his need to find organizing principles that were powerful enough to integrate and give purposeful direction to diverse factors and components. The problems emerged as he strove to fulfill his ultimate vision. As an inventor-entrepreneur, Edison presided over the process of technological change from problem identification to innovation and technology transfer. Creative fulfillment, however, came to him mosdy from the inUOTING

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3

' Isaiah Berlin, The Hedgehog and the Fox: An Essay on Tolstoy's View of History (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1953), p. 1. '' Parts of this chapter are drawn from Thomas P. Hughes, "The Electrification of America: The System Builders," Technology and Culture 20 (1979): 124-61. For a discussion of the concept of an entrepreneur as one who presides over invention, development, and innovation, see Thomas P. Hughes, Elmer Sperry, Inventor and Engineer (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins Press, 1971), pp. 63-70, 241, 290-95. 3

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INVENTION AND DEVELOPMENT ventive act, not from the other phases of technological development. He counted his patents more than his money, at least until his later years, when he began to look to industrialists like Henry Ford as status models. Edison flourished as an inventor-entrepreneur in the late 1870s and early eighties, the period when he was presiding over the invention and introduction of Jhis .system of electric lighting. His historical peers were other inventorentrepreneurs, such men as Robert Fultom_Samuel Morse, and Cyrus Hall McCormick, who, like himself, did not rest until companies (usually those they established) were manufacturing their inventions. Edison formed.a number of companies to organize his invention and the introduction of the lighting system: a company for research and development, others for . manufacturing components, and another to preside over the operation of the system. In each case, he allied himself with men whose interests and capabilities complemented his own. Persons with legal and financial experience, for instance, compensated for his lack of experience and special aptitude for the complexities of organization and financing. Despite their presence, however, it was Edison, as inventor-entrepreneur, who pulled most of the strings of the complex system. Later in the history of electric lighting and power systems, other entrepreneurs—manager-entrepreneurs and financier-entrepreneurs—took center stage because the most difficult problems blocking the growth of the system became managerial and financial. Inventors and engineers still had roles to play in the history of the evolving light and power systems, but the inventor-entrepreneurs moved on to other newly emerging fields of technology. Ellison's genius lay in his ability to direct a process involving problem identification, solution as idea, research and development, and introduction into use. These phases of change need to be defined, but because the process was, and is, so complex, and because there are so many variations on the central theme, an encompassing, general definition will suffice here. In problem identification, an inventor perceives a situation that can be defined as a problem. The ability to define the situation as a problem implies that a solution is likely to be found. Experienced inventors recognize that many situations cannot be defined as problems, because the state of the technology, availability of funding, or some other factor is not favorable. Idea response is the inventor's effort—active and passive (subconscious perhaps)—to formulate concepts that will solve in his imagination his definition of the problem. An imaginary device is functioning in an imaginary environment. Usually the inventor gathers information as he pursues—or even awaits—ideas. T h e idea response will become an invention after the idea has been given form. The inventive concepts of Edison and other inventors are often, perhaps usually, visual rather than verbal or mathematical. For this reason, the first expression of an idea often appears as a drawing in a notebook or on a scrap of paper. Subsequently the idea is given form as a mechanical and electrical device or as a chemical process. This invention is then brought by research and development to the stage at which it can be introduced to the market. Research is an informationgathering exercise and can be done by literature search or by scientific experimentation. Development, an important part of the innovation process, often involves the redefinition of the problem, new ideas, and research as the invention is tried in environments that are increasingly like the real-

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NETWORKS OF POWER use environment within which the innovation must function. The invention is no longer an imaginary device functioning in the inventor's mind. It is important to add that the innovation process is not straightforward; it involves backtracking to identify new subproblems, elicit additional ideas, and make new subinventions. T h e identification of a problem by experienced inventor-entrepreneurs like Edison usually involved bridging the gap between resources and demand. T h e professional identified a demand, either exisdng or potendal, and the available resources that might fill it. T h e resources included available endowments such as existing technology, capital, labor, and land (natural resources). Having identified the problem of using the resources to meet the demand, the inventor then created the technology, or the idea for the technology, that would make the resources usable in filling the demand. An excellent invention used the available resources efficiently and economically to respond to the demand precisely. T h e Iess-than-excellent invention needed to be refined to meet the demand. Not every invendon was a response to a demand, actual or anticipated, however; many that were not demand oriented were ingenious utilizadons of available resources, including existing technology. The response to available endowments, especially technological ones, is somedmes identified as "technological push" in contrast to "market pull." Edison, like so many professional inventors, acted in response to a combination of the two. Edison preferred to invent systems rather than components of other persons' systems. During his long career as a professional inventor-entrepreneur, he turned to the invendon of systems to such an extent that preference for systems can be idendfied as a salient characteristic of his approach. T h e history of several of his major inventions—the quadruplex telegraph, the telephone, the incandescent electric lighting system, magnetic-ore separation, Portland cement, and the storage battery—illustrates the spectrum of his methods. Some of these ventures were successful, 4

5

6

4

These definitions are developed further with illustrative examples in Thomas P. Hughes, "Inventors: T h e Problems They Choose, the Ideas They Have, and the Inventions They Make," in Technological Innovation: A Critical Review of Current Knowledge, ed. P. Kelly and M. Kxanzberg (San Francisco, Calif.: San Francisco Press, 1978), pp. 168-82. ' T h e literature, on the nature of invention is voluminous, and much of it is written by economic historians, sociologists, and historians of technology. Among the most useful books are Jacob Schmookler, Invention and Economic Growth (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1966); S. C. Gilfillan, The Sociology of Invention (Cambridge, Mass.: M.I.T. Press, 1970); and the revised edition of Abbott P. Usher, A History of Meclianical Invention (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1954). An annotated listing of many articles and books on innovation (and invention) can be found in S. H. Cutcliffe, J. A. Mistichelli, and C. M. Roysden, Technology and Values in American Civilization (Detroit, Mich.: Gale Research Co., 1980). 8

Edison's inventive activities are described in detail in many biographies, the quality of which varies greatly. T h e most recent are Robert Conot, A Streak of Luck (New York: Seaview Books, 1979); Ronald W. Clark, Edison: The Man Who Made the Future (New York: Putnam, 1977); and Matthew Josephson, Edison (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1959). T h e most thorough on technical matters and adulatory in tone are Frank L. Dyer and Thomas C. Martin, Edison: His Life and Inventions, 2 vols. (New York: Harper & Bros., 1910); and the 1929 edition of that work, which was written in collaboration with William H. Meadowcroft and also published by Harper & Bros. T h e most intimate study of the inventor is the account by Francis Jehl, Menlo Park Reminiscences, 3 vols. (Dearborn, Mich.: Edison Institute, 1937—41). Wyn Wach-

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INVENTION AND DEVELOPMENT some were not. Edison's method was not always the same; it varied with time and according to the problem, as one would expect from a professional. T h e history of his electric lighting system, however, reveals the essential characteristics of his systems approach. Edison is most widely known for his invention of the incandescent lamp, but it was only one component in his electric lighting system and was no more critical to its effective functioning than the Edison J u m b o generator, the Edison main and feeder, or the parallel-distribution system. Other inventors with generators and incandescent lamps and comparable ingenuity have been forgotten because they did not carry the process further and introduce a system of lighting. Why did Edison so often choose to work on systems? If the inventor created only a component, he remained dependent on others to invent or supply other components. T h e inventor of components could not have the control over innovation that Edison wanted. An apt example of an inventor of components, but not systems, is Joseph Swan (1828-1914), the British inventor of the incandescent lamp. Swan's lamps were incorporated with components invented by others into a system, but in private conversation Swan acknowledged the superiority of Edison's system. Swan cannot cora7

8

9

horst's Thomas Alva Edison: An American Myth (Cambridge, Mass.: M.I.T. Press, 1981) relates Edison the cultural hero to American values. See also the exhibit catalogue by Bernard Finn and Robert Friedel, Edison: Lighting a Revolution (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution, 1979). For a brief study of Edison, see Thomas P. Hughes, Thomas Edison, Professional Inventor (London: HMSO, 1976). 'Biographies of Edison usually include discourses on the Edison method. T h e chapter "Edison's Method in Inventing" in Dyer and Martin's Edison (2: 596-628) is informed and considered, if not critical. G. P. Lathrop ("Talks with Edison," Harper's New Monthly Magazine 80 [1889-90]: 425-35) rehearses the familiar, but adds occasional helpful items as he tries to perceive how an inventor invents. M. A. Rosanoff ("Edison in His Laboratory," Harper's Magazine 165 [1932]: 401—17) provides a scientist's appraisal which is not sentimental. Richard H. Schallenberg ("The Alkaline Storage Battery: A Case History of the Edison Method," Synthesis 1 [1972]: 1-13) generalizes about the Edison method from the case of the alkaline battery. H. M. Paynter of M.I.T. kindly provided me with a copy of his Thurston Lecture "Edison in Retrospect: Experimental Physicist and Systems Engineer," which he delivered at the American Society of Mechanical Engineers' annual meeting in Detroit, Mich, on 13 November 1973. I have also found helpful a paper on Edison's method which was presented by his son Theodore to the M.I.T. Club of Northern New Jersey on 24 January 1969. See also Conot, Streak of Luck, pp. 455-72; and Thomas P. Hughes, "Edison's Method," in Technology at the Turning Point, ed. William B. Pickett (San Francisco, Calif.: San Francisco Press, 1977), pp. 5-22. 8

This analysis of Edison's method of inventing systems is taken in part from Hughes, "Edison's Method," pp. 5—22. S e e G. P. Lowrey to Edison, 23 October 1881, and C. Batchelor to Edison, 4 October 1881, Edison Archives, Edison National Historic Site, West Orange, N.J. (hereafter cited as EA). T h e question of priority in the invention of the incandescent lamp has troubled many historians. Among the leading contenders for that priority were Thomas A. Edison and Joseph Swan (of Newcastle upon Tyne). Unfortunately, some of the controversy has swirled around a nebulous concept of what actually was invented. In a recent essay, "Swan's Way: Inventive Style and the Emergence of the Incandescent Lamp," George Wise sensibly focuses on the invention of the carbon filament and discusses the importance of Edison's systems approach to the invention. Wise points out that Edison's estimates of the cost of his system were grossly in error, but contributed conceptually to his invention. I am indebted to Wise for allowing me to see his pre-publication manuscript, scheduled to appear in IEEE Spectrum in April 1982. s

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p a r e with E d i s o n as an i n v e n t o r - e n t r e p r e n e u r , but his claim to h a v e inv e n t e d the practical carbon-filament l a m p is c o m p a r a b l e to Edison's. A n o t h e r reason for Edison's inclination to invent systems was m o r e subtle: h e s o u g h t t h e s t i m u l a t i o n f o r i n v e n t i v e ideas w h i c h c o m e s f r o m s e e i n g inadequacies in s o m e c o m p o n e n t s revealed by improvements m a d e in others. Imbalances a m o n g interacting c o m p o n e n t s pointed u p the n e e d for additional invention. By the time each system was ready for use, therefore, it i n v o l v e d m a n y p a t e n t s . E d i s o n , w h o rarely articulated his m e t h o d , said of his i n v e n t i o n of an electric lighting system: It was not only necessary that the lamps should give light and the d y n a m o s g e n erate current, but t h e lamps must be adapted to the current of the dynamos, and the d y n a m o s must be constructed to give the character of current required by the lamps, and likewise all parts of the system must be constructed with reference to all other parts, since, in o n e sense, all the parts form o n e machine, and the connections between the parts being electrical instead of mechanical. Like any o t h e r machine the failure of o n e part to cooperate properly with the other part disorganizes the whole and renders it inoperadve for the p u r p o s e i n t e n d e d . T h e problem then that I undertook to solve was stated generally, the production of the multifarious apparatus, methods and devices, each adapted for use with every other, and all forming a comprehensive system.'"

T h e interactions p r o v i d e d structure, o r g u i d e l i n e s , for i n v e n t i v e activity. O t h e r i n v e n t o r s also u s e d t h e systems a p p r o a c h , h a v i n g , like E d i s o n , e x p e r i e n c e d its s t i m u l a t i n g e f f e c t . Reflection on Edison's m e t h o d suggests that he u s e d the systems a p proach in o r d e r to e m p l o y the reverse salient-critical p r o b l e m s m e t h o d , but s i n c e E d i s o n d i d n o t a n a l y z e a n d articulate his a p p r o a c h a n d m e t h o d , the historian m u s t interpret t h e r e c o r d carefully. In fact, the r e c o r d s h o w s that o t h e r inventors a n d e n g i n e e r s used the reverse salient-critical probl e m s m e t h o d d u r i n g the half-century c o v e r e d by this study; thus, attributing that m e t h o d to E d i s o n as well d o e s not s e e m a far-fetched conclusion (see p p . 3 3 - 3 7 below). As n o t e d earlier, reverse salients are o b v i o u s w e a k points, or weak c o m p o n e n t s , in a technology which are in n e e d of further develo p m e n t . A reverse salient is obvious, a n d creative imagination is not n e e d e d t o d e f i n e it. A s will b e s h o w n , t h e n o n d u r a b i l i t y o f e x p e r i m e n t a l l a m p filaments before 1 8 7 8 was a reverse salient in incandescent-lamp systems. E d i s o n a n d m a n y o t h e r s w e r e a w a r e o f the n e e d for inventive activities i n this area. In c o n t r a s t to a r e v e r s e salient, t h e n , the d e f i n i t i o n of critical p r o b l e m s b y a n i n v e n t o r d o e s require creative i m a g i n a t i o n . Critical p r o b lems result f r o m the inventor's defining the reverse salient as a problem, o r set o f p r o b l e m s , that, w h e n solved, will correct t h e r e v e r s e salient. (As will b e s e e n , i n E d i s o n ' s w o r k t h e r e v e r s e salients w e r e o f t e n e c o n o m i c i n n a t u r e ; t h e critical p r o b l e m s , technical.) A s y s t e m s a p p r o a c h facilitates t h e use of the reverse salient-critical problems m e t h o d b e c a u s e reverse salients 1 1

' " T h e quotation is taken from a photoreproduction of Edison's public testimony. T h e reproduced pages are numbered 3128-34. T h e item is on file at the Edison Archives in a folder labeled "Electric Light Histories Written by Thomas A. Edison for Henry Ford, 1926." Edison archivist A. R. Abel is unable to identify the original source of this item. " Elmer Sperry, also a professional, independent inventor, introduced guidance and control systems for ships and airplanes prior to World I. His approach is similar to Edison's. See Hughes, Sperry, esp. pp. 51-53, 63-70, 159-61, 290-95.

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23

INVENTION AND DEVELOPMENT are observably weak in relationship to other system components, and because, as Edison himself wrote, the improvement of one component in a system will reverberate throughout the system and cause the need for improvements in other components, thereby enabling the entire system to fulfill its goal more efficiendy or economically. In other words, the systems approach facilitated the conceptual formuladon of Gestalt patterns and the visualization of the incomplete parts of those patterns. T h e availability of assistants with a variety of knowledge and skills also stimulated Edison to choose problems that involved a system of components. T h e r e were superb mechanics, electricians, chemists, glass blowers, and other skilled persons in the Menlo Park communi^'Jrffter^cqxuring funding for his electric lightingjproject in the fall of 1878, Edison employed additional men whose talents were particularly well suited for the project. Of special importance among them was Francis Upton, the mathematician and physicist. Others, however, had been at Edison's side for years. Charles Batchelor, for instance, was an ingenious master craftsman, dexterous and sharp-eyed, and his wide-ranging experimental techniques and mechanical aptitude kept him at Edison's right hand. Batchelor was so closely involved with Edison in all of his work "that his absence from the laboratory is invariably a signal for Mr. Edison to suspend labor." John Kreusi, who was in charge of the Menlo Park machine shop, also played a major role in building the Edison system. Trained in Switzerland as a fine mechanic, he could deftly construct Edison's various designs from nothing more than rough sketches and cryptic instructions. He, like Batchelor, had been with Edison in Newark, New Jersey, before the establishment of the Menlo Park laboratory (see Fig. 11.1 ) i When the electric lighting project entered the development phase, others at Menlo Park worked on various components of the system. Dr. Hermann Claudius, a former officer in the Austrian Telegraph Corps, built simulations of the system with batteries for generators, fine wires for the distribution system, and resistors for the load. Francis Jehl reported that Claudius had at his fingertips Kirchhoffs laws of conductor networks. T h e names of some of the other pioneers who made it possible for Edison to invent and develop an entire system include John "Basic" Lawson, J. F. Ott, D. A. "Doc" Haid, William J. Hammer, Edward H.Johnson, Stockton Griffin, George and William Carman, Martin Force, and Ludwig Boehm (see Fig. II.2). These varied talents were supported by a broad array of expensive machine tools, chemical apparatus, library resources, scientific instruments, and electrical equipment. A major reason for the establishment of the Edison Electric Light Company, the patent-holding enterprise, in October 1878 was to acquire funds for additional laboratory equipment. T h e story 12

1 3

14

Figure II.1. Associates in the Edison system: Francis Upton, John Kreusi, and Charles Batchelor. Courtesy of the Edison Archives, Edison National Historic Site, West Orange, N.J.

15

,2

New York Herald, 21 December 1879, quoted in Jehl, Reminiscences, 1: 393. " J e h l , Reminiscences, 1: 54. Ibid., 2: 545. '"'For Jehl's description of the scientific instruments, see ibid., esp. 1: 257-70. Robert Friedel, director of the Center for the History of Electrical Engineering, Institute of Electrical and Electronics Engineers, has found no evidence in the Edison record of Edison's having borrowed the Sprengel pump. T h e surviving record suggests that the pump was developed at Menlo Park. Robert Friedel, personal communication, 1 March 1982. 14

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Figure II.2. Creators of the Edison system, Menlo Park, 1879. Back row, right to left: A. "Doc" Haid (chemist); Francis Upton (mathematician); Francis Jehl; and Charles Batchelor (master mechanic). Third row, third from right: Thomas Edison. Courtesy of the Edison Archives, Edison National Historic Site, West Orange, N.J.

(perhaps apocryphal) of Edison's borrowing a Sprengel pump from Princeton University to achieve the vacuum needed in his incandescent-bulb experiments is well known. It may have led to the erroneous conclusion, however, that Edison and Upton did not sufficiently appreciate the importance of scientific instruments in experimentation, at least not enough to invest heavily in them. It may also have led to the equally false conclusion that Edison's laboratory was not as well equipped as the laboratories of major universities. In fact, the Menlo Park laboratory probably built a vacuum p u m p of the latest design. Furthermore, Menlo Park had galvanometers, static generators, Leyden jars, induction coils (including a Ruhmkorff coil capable of a 20-cm. spark), batteries, and condensers. Wooden-boxed condensers "were strewn everywhere," for they, along with variable-resistance boxes, were essential apparatus for telegraphy experiments. In addition, the laboratory was equipped with a standard ohm, a Wheatstone bridge, Thomson high- and low-resistance reflecting galvanometers, an astatic galvanometer, and a Helmholtz-Gaugain tangent galvanometer. Edison's experimentation also led to the purchase of other inventors' and manufacturers' apparatus, such as generators, for testing purposes. T h e Edison laboratory at Menlo Park was probably one of the best electrical laboratories in the world. Moreover, Edison also equipped it, at great expense, as a chemical research laboratory. The expenses and wages for equipment and personnel were substantial. Edison reported in January 1879, about six months after commencing the electric lighting project, that he had expended $35,000 on the project and that operating 16

16

Jehl, Reminiscences, 1: 228-29, 257-70.

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INVENTION AND DEVELOPMENT expenses continued at the rate of about $800 each week. By November 1879 more than $50,000 had been spent on the project. > T h e r e was a feedback relationship in all this. Edison assembled a community of craftsmen and appliers of science and the tools and scientific instruments they needed in order to work on problems of a systemic nature, and the presence of these men and their apparatus further stimulated him, even constrained him, to choose to invent and develop systems. T h e existence of a community at Menlo Park and later at Edison's larger laboratory at West Orange, New Jersey, did, however, lead to controversy about the significance of Edison's role and about his dependence on his staff. Francis Jehl insisted in his Memoirs (published years later) that Edison was the Napoleon with the master plan. Other historians have interpreted Edison's contribution and method in light of Jehl's memoirs. As a result, Edison emerges as the profoundly imaginative formulator of a grand design that was fulfilled in detail by knowledgeable and skilled assistants. Edison even used insights drawn from scientific law—for example, Ohm's law—to his own advantage. On the other hand, Jehl, in a confidential memorandum, assigned the role of master conceptualizer to Francis Upton, the user of science who invented ingenious solutions to technical problems. Upton, a young "scholar and gentleman" who was nicknamed "Culture" by Edison, joined Edison's staff at Menlo Park in December 1878 on the recommendation of Grosvenor P. Lowrey, Edison's counsel and business and financial adviser. He became Edison's mathematician and physicist. He had been educated at Phillips Andover Academy, Bowdoin College, Princeton University, and Berlin University, where he attended lectures by the eminent scientist Hermann von Helmholtz. Notes on Helmholtz's lectures on physics during the winter semester of 1877 survive among Upton's papers at the Edison Archives in West Orange, New Jersey. The Edison who emerges in Jehl's memorandum is remarkably different from the Edison depicted in Jehl's Reminiscences. In private, Jehl described Edison as a "pusher" who gave his financial backers confidence that he would find a way to solve the problems. Jehl reluctantly acknowledged that Edison was a genius, but he regarded Upton as the thinker and the conceptualizer of systems. As he put it: 17

18

19

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When an abnormal man can find such abnormal ways and.means to make his name known all over the world with such rocket-like swiftness, and accumulate such wealth with such little real knowledge, a man that cannot solve a simple equation, I say, such a man is a genius—or let us use the more popular word—a wizard. So was Barnum! Edison is and always was a shrewd, witty business man " E d i s o n to Theodore Puskas, 28 January 1879, in Letter Book E-3407, EA; Lowrey to Edison, 13 November 1879, in folder labeled "Electric Light—General," EA. J e h l , Reminiscences, 1: 216, 362-63; 2: 852-54. T h e memorandum is in the William Hammer Collection, Museum of American History, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C. It was enclosed in a tetter from Francis Jehl to F. R. Upton, 22 April 1913. In a note on the memorandum, Hammer wrote that years earlier Jehl had written a similar letter to him from Budapest. I am indebted to Robert Friedel of the History Institute of the Institute of Electrical and Electronic Engineers for calling my attention to this item. jehl wrote his Reminiscences years after these events while employed at the Menlo Park laboratory at Dearborn, Michigan, which had been restored by Henry Ford, a friend and admirer of Edison's. 18

, s

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NETWORKS OF POWER without a soul, an electrical and mechanical j o b b e r , w h o well understood how to "whoop things up," whose only ambition was to make m o n e y and pose as a sort of fetich for great masses of people that possess only a popular notion of an art, and w h o are always ready to yap in astonishment at s o m e fire-work display that is blown off for the benefit of mankind. Yellow journals and hedge-writers claim h i m for their o w n , while the work of U p t o n is hidden in the lore of progressive science and r e s e a r c h . 21

Jehl insisted in private, as he did in his memoirs, that the work at Menlo Park was not haphazard experimentation, but in confidence he declared that the group's theoredcal insights came from the "proficient and eruditive mind" of Upton. It was Upton who coached Edison about science and its uses in solving technical problems; it was Upton who taught Edison to comprehend the ohm, volt, and weber (ampere) and their relation to one another. Upton, for instance, laid down the principles that governed the project's commercial and economic distribution system and solved the equations that rationalized it. His tables, his use of scientific units and instruments, made possible the design of the system. Upton's interpretation of his relationship with Edison was far more appreciative of Edison's role. In a memorandum on the Edison method, Upton portrayed Edison as the director of a research and development laboratory. He stressed Edison's power of concentration and single-minded pursuit of an objective. Whatever lay at hand was seized upon and molded to his purpose; occasionally, quite expensive apparatus was ruined because it was available and could be made to serve an immediate purpose. T h e expense mattered little to Edison during the heat of the quest. His power of concentration also showed itself in his ability to follow a single line of thought as he read through pages of densely packed information. Edison also impressed Upton with his talent for asking original questions. "I can answer questions very easily after they are asked," Upton lamented, "but find great trouble in framing any to answer." Edison posed questions that could be translated into hypotheses, which in turn established the strategy and tactics of experimentation. His questions were often drawn from his doubts about accepted explanations and procedures. According to Upton, Edison never took anything for granted; he always doubted what others thought possible. Sometimes the result was that he found a new way. T h e questions sometimes flowed from Edison as if he had no control over his thoughts but was intuitively penetrating to the essence of a complex and confusing situation. While waiting for the leading questions to form in his mind or the right experiment to present itself, Edison often passed the time, Upton observed, by idly doing experiments in the general area of his concern, which kept his attention focused on the general problem. If such efforts proved fruitless, he would shift to another subject area and work on another project for a time. 22

23

Upton was well versed in calculus, and Edison was notorious for his weakness in mathematics, but the way in which Edison grasped the essence of quantifiable relationships impressed Upton. Upton's task was to reduce 21

Memorandum in Jehl to Upton, 22 April 1913, pp. 10—11, Hammer Collection. "Ibid., p. 4. Folder labeled "Biographical—Upton,.Francis," item E-6285-11, EA. 23

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INVENTION AND DEVELOPMENT Edison's notions to equations. Edison's ability to find metaphors that allowed him to draw on what he knew and impose order on what he did not know also was a gift. Upton admired the way in which Edison formulated general objectives, or solutions, and then worked ingeniously toward the end in view. Further research will not ultimately resolve the complexity and contradictions in the surviving testimony of active, ambitious men like Edison and his Iieutenants.The relationships were as multifaceted and involuted as Jehl's analogy of Napoleon-and-staff suggests. Pioneers like Upton enhanced the Edison legend; a few others, like Jehl, in private, cast doubts. Among those who raised questions openly were Nikola Tesla, the inventor of a polyphase power system; W. K. L. Dickson, the inventor of motion picture apparatus; and Frank J. Sprague, a pioneer in electric traction. Their, or their advocates', criticisms generally focus on the alleged failure of Edison, or history, to ascribe credit due them for work done, or inventions made, while they were employed by Edison. Laboratory notebooks and other records do suggest that he was often stimulated by the ideas and achievements of others, inside the laboratory and out. He drew on the ideas of others by means of literature and patent searches. It is also true that Edison seldom singled out assistants to attribute to them particular inventive ideas, but he often acknowledged their general assistance in newspaper interviews and he gave them responsible positions in his manufacturing enterprises. T h e tangled connections and contradictory evidence can be clarified somewhat, however, if we view the Edison group as an organic community whose members were functionally, or systematically, related. Edison's role had to be played, as did Kreusi's, Batchelor's, and Upton's. Jehl might have been covertly jealous of the publicity given Edison, even of his stature as a hero, but the myth helped attract financiers who would never have supported Jehl or even Jehl's hero Upton. No doubt Edison's immense prestige also influenced those who were involved in patent litigation. And it is doubtful that the others could have provided the verve and intellectual style that gave Edison the power to inspire most of the Menlo Park community to work long hours at fever pitch. It is understandable, however, that persons functioning effectively in a community would at times reject the ego-constraining role the community asked them to play. The controversy over Edison's role is clarified somewhat when attention is directed to the systems approach informally used in his laboratory. As entrepreneur and manager of research and development, Edison was responsible for the output of his research-and-development community. Evaluating him simply as an independent inventor is inappropriate. T h e question should not be Did Edison invent? but rather How did he preside over inventive activity? Biographers have been led astray by focusing on Edison's patents and their priority, In truth, assigning patents to Edison was probably in many instances partially a tactical device used to take advantage of his fame and prestige to impress potential financial backers and evenjudges 24

21

Gordon Hendricks, The Edison Motion Picture Myth (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1961); Harriet Sprague, Frank J. Sprague and the Edison Myth (New York: William Frederick Press, 1947).

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in patent litigation. Because many of his inventions were undoubtedly the result of collective endeavors, it would have been fair to assign the patents to several persons in the laboratory including Edison. This, however, is an issue separate from the question of the role he played as a manager and entrepreneur of invention and development. It is interesting to note in this regard that the American inventor Eli Whitney has recently been described as a manager and entrepreneur. T h e systems Edison chose were not simply technical ones; they involved economics as well. For example, from the start of his sustained concentration on the electric lighdng project in the fall of 1878, Edison and his laboratory assistants analyzed the costs of generating and distributing electricity. Various notebook entries, though they do not provide a chronology and complete record of Edison's inventive ideas and development activities, show the focus of his thoughts on, for instance, the cost of operating the Gramme and Wallace arc-light generators that were acquired for test purposes. From the available literature, Edison and his assistants also ascertained the cost of operating a Jablochkoff arc-lighting system, the invention that had created so much excitement during its display in Paris and other European cities. Other items in the notebooks for the early months of the project also reveal Edison's concern about the cost of copper needed for 25

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See Merritt R. Smith, Harpers Ferry Armory and the New Technology (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1977); and, especially, idem, "Eli Whitney and the American System of Manufacturing," in Technology in America, ed. Carroll W. Pursell.Jr. (Cambridge, Mass.: M.l.T. Press, 1981), pp. 4 5 - 6 1 . Menlo Park Notebook no. 6 (4 December 1878-30 January 1879), pp. 22-30. Edison's laboratory notebooks are part of the Edison Archives on file at the Edison National Historic Site, West Orange, N.J. Hereafter, if only one date is given for a notebook, it is for the first dated entry in the notebook; if two dates are given, the second is for the last dated entry. 25

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INVENTION AND DEVELOPMENT 27

distribution and generator wiring. On 8 September 1878 Edison visited the Ansonia, Connecticut, plant of William Wallace, the brass manufacturer, to see his arc-light dynamo. While there, Edison made rough calculations, including fuel costs and transmission losses. He also decided in the early days that a successfuljighting_system.. would be.one that produced light at a price lower than the cost of gas. Spurred by his vision of an electric lighting system that would be analogous to existing gaslight systems, he began—in 1878, according to his own recollections—collecting 28

29

every kind of data about gas; bought all the transactions of the gas engineering societies, etc., all the back volumes of gas journals. Having obtained all the data and investigated gas-jet distribution in New York by actual observations, I made up my mind that the problem of the subdivision of the electric current could be solved and made commercial. 30

Edison could not reduce general statements about the comparative costs of gas lighting and electric lighting to quantitadvely more precise ones until he had developed some of his inventions and made a detailed analysis of the cost of gas lighting as supplied in a particular locality. From the start, he clearly realized, however, that his system would have to be economically competitive, and thus he conceived of the problem to be solved by invention as inseparably technical and economic. He did not set out to invent a lighting system the cost of which would not be considered until it was built. As an economic historian later observed, "From the economist's viewpoint, the most significant aspect of Edison's activities in electric lighting was his concern at every step with economic factors." It would perhaps be more correct to say that he defined problems as econotechnical. Because technological change involved economic, legal, and legislative factors as well as technical and scientific ones, Edison needed a Grosvenor Lowrey to help him fulfill his objectives as an inventor-entrepreneur. Lowrey guided Edison in matters involving Wall Street, New York City politicians, and patent applications. Edison, however, did not step back, immerse himself in technological and scientific problems, and leave the "politics" to Lowrey; the surviving correspondence shows that Edison played a prominent role in the financial and political scenarios concerning his inventions. Born in Massachusetts, Lowrey took up the practice of law in New York 31

" S e e Menlo Park Notebook no. 1 (28 November 1878-24 July 1879), section on wire calculations; and Notebook no. 12 (20 December 1878), pp. 174-75, 232-33. On the cost of operating Jablochkoff candles, see Notebook no. 6, p. 57. Christopher S. Derganc, "Thomas Edison and His Electric Lighting System," IEEE Spectrum, February 1979, p. 50. Harold C. Passer, The Electrical Manufacturers, 1875-1900 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1953), p. 83. Testimony of Edison quoted in Thomas C. Martin, Forty Years of Edison Service, 18821922 (New York: New York Edison Co., 1922), p. 9. Contrary to Edison's claim that he undertook investigadon of the gaslight industry in 1878, notebook records and other original sources show that no systematic research about the industry was done until the end of 1879 and during 1880, when Edison was planning his first central station in New York City. I am indebted to Paul Israel of the Thomas Edison Papers Project at Rutgers University for this information. Israel is investigating Edison's method in the Menlo Park period. Paul B. Israel, personal communication, 16 February 1982. Passer, Electrical Manufacturers, p. 83. 28

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50

31

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NETWORKS OF POWER City and rose to prominence there. He acted as counsel to the U.S. Express Company, Wells Fargo & Company, and the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad. He was also legal adviser to the financial entrepreneur Henry Villard, who became closely associated with Edison. In 1866 Lowrey became general counsel for the Western Union Telegraph Company, a posidon which brought Edison and Lowrey together in connection with telegraph patent litigation. Lowrey was one of those who persuaded Edison to turn to electric lighting. Having observed the sensational publicity given to the introduction of the Jablochkoff arc light in Paris in 1878, Lowrey urged Edison to enter the field and offered to raise the money Edison needed to expand Menlo Park. Not only did he advise Edison, he often encouraged the inventor. Lowrey promised in 1878 that the income from electric-lighting patents would be enough to fulfill one of Edison's dreams: it would "set [him] up forever . . . [and] enable [him] . . . to build and formally endow a working laboratory such as the world needs and has never seen." (At that time, the only buildings in the Menlo Park complex were the laboratory building, the carpentry shop, and the carbon shed; still to come were a machine shop, library, and office buildings.) Shortly afterward, Edison gave Lowrey a free hand in negotiating the sale of forthcoming electric-lighting patents and establishing business associations and enterprises at home and abroad: "Go ahead, I shall agree to nothing, promise nothing and say nothing to any person leaving the whole matter to you. All I want at present is to be provided with funds to push the light rapidly." Lowrey had close contacts with the New York financial and political world. His law offices were on the third floor of the Drexel Building— Drexel, Morgan and Company occupied the first floor. Working closely with his long-time friend Egisto P. Fabbri, "an Italian financial genius" and partner of J. Pierpont Morgan's, he obtained the funds for Edison from the Vanderbilts and Drexel, Morgan and Company. His skiTLand effectiveness in dealing with poTiEFians and political problems is conveyed by the following episode. In December 1880 Lowrey arranged a lobbying extravaganza. T h e objective was to obtain a franchise allowing the Edison Illuminating Company to lay the distribution system for the first commercial Edison lighting system in New York City. Behind the opposition of some New York City aldermen lay gaslight interests and lamplighters who might be thrown out of work by the new incandescent light. A special train brought the mayor and aldermen to Menlo Park. Arriving at dusk, they saw the tiny lamps glowing inside and outside the laboratory buildings. After a tour and demonstration by Edison and his staff, someone pointedly complained of being thirsty, which was a signal for the group to be led up to a darkened second floor of the laboratory. Lights suddenly went on to disclose a lavish "spread" from the famous Delmonico's. After dinner, Lowrey presented Edison and Edison's case, and in due time the franchise was 32

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35

" P a y s o n Jones, A Power History of the Consolidated Edison System, 1878—1900 (New York: Consolidated Edison Co., 1940), p. 27; on Lowrey, see p. 161. " L o w r e y to Edison, 10 October, 1878, EA. Edison to Lowrey, 2 October, 1878, EA. " Lewis Corey, Tlie Ho-ise of Morgan (New York: G. H. Watt, 1930), p. 23, quoted in Jones, History of the Consolidated Edison System, p. 162. M

53

31 1 StotW->(bi

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Figure 11.4. System diagrams: Generators in series, lamps in parallel, and three-wire distribution. Patent no. 274, 290 (20 March 1882). Three-wire distribution was not introduced until 1883.

INVENTION AND DEVELOPMENT 36

g r a n t e d . T h e franchise was as necessary for commercial success as a wellworking dynamo. T u r n i n g to the simple chronological history of the invention and development of Edison's electric lighting system will serve as a reminder that even though Edison's concepts were holistic and his approach was essentially systematic, his day-to-day activities were analogous to the hunting and backtracking of a goal-seeking organism that does not know precisely how to proceed. Edison had taken time off from some of his other projects to experiment with incandescent lamps before the fall of 1878, but it was not until 1878 that he envisaged his goal and organized the electric-lighting project. To suggest that Edison's approach to the invention of electric lighting was systematic does not imply, however, that from the start of the project he conceived of the system in all of its precise technical and economic relationships and quantitative characteristics. What is clear is that he intended from the start of the project to invent not only an incandescent lamp but also related components, such as a distribution network. T h e components of the system about which Edison first had inventive ideas in 1878 may have been the distribution network and the incandescent lamp. These ideas, as is usually the case with inventions, were improvements and new combinations. Until Edison's numerous notebooks with their often incomprehensible and scrambled entries are more thoroughly analyzed, the answer to the question of what exactly he discovered or invented in the early fall of 1878 will remain in doubt, but circumstances suggest that the inventions may have been a parallel system of distribution and a filament lamp with a circuit-interrupting device (see Fig. II.4). T h e design of a circuit-interrupting device in each lamp may have been suggested to him by the design of a tasimeter that he had recently invented to measure the heat of the sun's corona during eclipse. He believed that these ideas could be developed into practical devices. As he wrote to an associate, "Have struck a bonanza in electric light—indefinite subdivision of light." Edison's early problem identification and inventive ideas were not, however, remarkably original. T h e subdivisionoOight.had.been_CQnsidered^a critical problem ever since it became obviousthat arc lamps were too intense for small-space lighting. Subdivision refers to the divjsjqn of light.or electrical energy, into smaller units. T h e use of Jow-intensity, incandescentfilament lamps was seen as a likely answer to this problem because a number of inventors before Edison had designed incandescent lamps of varied characteristics. These lamps, however, were not durable. One historian of the incandescent electric light cites the invention of twenty types of incan37

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J e h l , Reminiscences, 2: 778-85. At the time of this writing the Thomas A. Edison Papers Project, headed by Professors Reese Jenkins and Leonard Reich, is engaged in the editing and analysis of the Edison collection at West Orange. In cooperation with this project, Dr. Bernard Finn of the Smithsonian Institution and Dr. Robert Friedel of the Institute of Electrical and Electronic Engineers' history center are making an in-depth study using the Edison papers on the invention of the incandescent lamp. Both studies should provide fresh information, understanding, and insight into Edison's method and activities. C o n o t , Streak of Luck, pp. 116, 120. Telegram from Edison to Puskas, 22 September 1878, EA. (Edison had written William Wallace to this effect on 13 September.) 37

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NETWORKS OF POWER descent lamps from 1809 to 1878 (what has been called the precommercial period). One of the inventors, Moses G. Farmer, was the former partner of Wallace, whom Edison visited in September 1878. Farmer had used a platinum-strip incandescent lamp as early as July 1859 and returned to experimentation in 1877; in 1878 he proposed connecting the incandescent lamps in parallel. He also used a circuit-breaking device to cool the filam e n t . Edison may have learned of this on his Ansonia visit; in any event, he had had the opportunity to consider parallel circuits, as contrasted to series connecdons, in the telegTaph and in arc-light and electrochemical battery systems. His notebooks for the last three months of 1878 and his early electriclight patents support the conclusion that his bonanzas were the durable filament and parallel circuitry. He had decided even earlier to use a platinum filament. Early in October he was experimenting with a platinum filament and a thermostatic device to cool the platinum before it fused. At the same time, he had in mind a parallel circuit. He applied for a patent on a platinum filament with a thermostatic regulator on 5 October 1878 and was granted the patent (no. 214,636) on 22 April 1879. Edison's notebooks and patents suggest that the invention of a thermostatic regulator and the parallel circuit were inextricably linked because the regulator briefly interrupted the flow of current to cool the filament and because, if the lamps had been wired in series, all the lamps would have been extinguished when the regulator of any one of them operated. Thus the interaction of components served as the stimulus for invention. 40

41

42

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With their inventive ideas, Edison and his associates embarked on the long and tedious research and experimentation that was needed to develop their general notions into practical devices. Not all of Edison's experiments involved physical apparatus. Many were simply calculations; by using data available in the technical literature and elementary science, such as Ohm's law, Edison and his staff could anticipate phenomena. Because the simple circuit equations and economic calculations used were quantitative, the experiments, both physical and symbolic, were econotechnical (though Edison and his assistants would never have employed such jargon). Edison announced his brainchild prematurely, with fanfare, in the New York Sun on 20 October 1878. He told reporters of his plans for underground distribution in mains from centrally located generators in the great cities; predicted that his electric light would be brought into private houses and substituted for gas burners at a lower cost; and confidently asserted that his central station "[would furnish] light to all houses within a circle 40

Arthur A. Bright, Jr., The Electric-Lamp Industry: Technological Change and Economic Development from 1800 to 1947 (New York: Macmillan, 1949), pp. 39-40. Conot, Streak of Luck, p. 120; Bright, Electric-Lamp Industry, p. 46; George F. Barker to Edison, 22 November 1878, EA. Frank L. Pope, Modern Practice of the Electric Telegraph (New York: Van Nostrand, 1877), p. 153; Edwin Houston, A Dictionary of Electrical Words, Terms, and Phrases (New York: Johnston, 1888), p. I 3 l ; Memorandum in Jehl to Upton, 22 April 1913, p. 8, Hammer Collection. "Charles Stowell to Edison, 31 May 1878, EA. "Drawing labeled "Caveat no. 4" and dated 8 October 1878, EA. Bright, Electric-Lamp Industry, pp. 61-64; and Jehl, Reminiscences, 1: 235-36. Edison also saw the possibility of using a shunt circuit for each lamp to make the lamps independent. Robert Friedel, personal communication, 1 March 1982. 41

12

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INVENTION AND DEVELOPMENT of half a mile." He spoke not only of his incandescent lamp but of other envisaged components of his system, such as meters, dynamos, and distribution mains. In fact, he had no generator, no practical incandescent lamp, much less a developed system of distribution—these were at least a year away. He did however, have the concept. As he wrote in private to an associate, I have the right principle and am on the right track, but time, hard work and s o m e g o o d luck are necessary too. It has been just so in all of my inventions. T h e first step is an intuition, a n d comes with a burst, then difficulties arise—this thing gives out and [it is] then that 'Bugs'—as such little faults and difficulties are called—show themselves and months of intense watching, study and labor are requisite before commercial success or failure is certainly r e a c h e d . 47

Others also reported in 1878 that Edison had ideas for a lamp and for a parallel wiring system as well as a general outline for his project. Francis Jehl, who joined Edison as a laboratory assistant early in 1879 and who later published reminiscences of the Menlo Park days, believed that in October 1878—twelve months before the construction of a practical incandescent lamp and the announcement of his basic generator design—"Edison had his plans figured out, as a great general figures out his battle strategy before the first cannon is fired." T h e key to Edison's success, according to Jehl, "lay in his early vision, far in advance of realization." Assuming that Edison was thinking systematically helps explain why he soon directed his attention away from the durability of the filament to a combination of durability and high resistance. Analysis of system costs led him to identify the need for a high-resistance filament. Ultimately this became the critical problem and the essence of his lamp as a patentable invention. It is not clear when the search for high resistance began, but in a 1926 essay that has been attributed to him, Edison stated that in the fall of 1878 he experimented with carbon filaments, the major problem of which was their low resistance. As he explained it, "In a lighting system the current required to light them in great numbers would necessitate such large copper conductors for mains, etc., that the investment would be prohibitive and absolutely uncommercial. In other words, an apparently remote consideration (the amount of copper used for conductors), was really the commercial crux of the problem." Further evidence for the dating of his high-resistance concept is his statement that "about December 1878 I engaged as my mathematician a young man named Francis R. Upton. . . . O u r figures proved that an electric lamp must have at least 100 48

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" E d i s o n to Puskas, 13 November 1878, EA. J e h l , Reminiscences, 1: 216. Ibid., p. 217. T h o m a s A. Edison, "Beginnings of the Incandescent Lamp and Lighting System" (typescript), p. 4, EA. T h e typescript is dated 1926 and identified as an item sent to Henry Ford at his request; it should be used cautiously, however, because by 1926 Edison and his patent lawyers had organized history with their own priorities in mind. Also, it follows in many ways the account of the incandescent lamp given in the authorized biography of Edison; see Dyer and Martin, Edison, 1: 234—66. T h e 1926 typescript was written with the help of W. H. Meadowcroft, who later collaborated with Dyer and Martin in the publication of the 1929 edition of the Edison biography. I am indebted to Robert G. Koolakian for this information. 48

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NETWORKS OF POWER 51

ohms resistance to compete commercially with gas." Edison said that he then tried various metals, including platinum, in order to obtain a filament of high resistance, and that he continued along these lines until about April 1879, when he developed a platinum filament of great promise because the occluded gases had been driven out of it, thereby increasing its infusibility. In his Reminiscences, Jehl maintains that Edison wanted a highresistance lamp as early as October 1878, and that he had reached this conclusion by thinking through his envisaged system of electric lighting. Jehl also states that by applying Joule's and Ohm's laws, Edison arrived at the essentials of his system. Edison seems to have been refining his inventive ideas for components and his more general ideas for a system throughout the fall of 1878 (see Fig. II.5). His early emphasis on the durable filament and parallel wiring was specific, but his notion of a system involving generators, lamps, and distribution from a central station was vague. He probably first conceived of it as an analogue of central-station, illuminating gas supply. Experimenting with filaments and calculating costs from available data about existing generator and arc-light systems allowed him, and then Upton, to introduce the costs into the system. This perspective revealed that a durable filament and parallel wiring might yield a technically workable system, but not an economically feasible one. As a result of a systematic analysis of technical and economic factors, the high-resistance filament then emerged as the critical problem. Joule's and Ohm's laws, equations that are considered simple today, were of great value to the inventors, for they allowed the characteristics of the components to be introduced as variables and related systematically. T h e effect of an intended change in one variable (component) on other variables (components) could be anticipated, and actual experiments would test the assumptions and predictions. Jehl's stress on the importance of Ohm's law, and items in the laboratory notebooks and secondary literature, suggest more about the nature of Edison's reasoning and that of his assistants, especially Francis U p t o n . As 52

53

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Edison, "Beginnings," p. 5. Upton stated that Edison had high resistance in mind when Upton joined Edison's staff; see Francis R. Upton's 1918 speech to Edison Pioneers, item XEG285-13, folder labeled "Biographical—Upton, Francis," EA. Contrary to his recollection, however, Jehl did not come to Menlo Park until the end of February 1879, "at the earliest." Paul B. Israel, 16 February 1982, personal communication (see note 30 above). Therefore, Jehl's statement should be taken as secondhand evidence. " J e h l {Reminiscences, 1: 362-63 and 2: 852-54) stresses Edison's reliance upon Ohm's law. The stress suggested a clue to Edison's reasoning. In a reference often used at Menlo Park (the essay "Electricity" in the Encyclopaedia Britannica, 9th ed. [1878], p. 41), Ohm's law is stated as R = E/C (resistance equals electromotive force divided by current). In a misleadingly titled article, Harold C. Passer argues cogently that Edison's reasoning was as Jehl suggested ("Electrical Science and the Early Development of the Electrical Manufacturing Industry in the United States," Annals of Science 7 [1951): 382-92). Passer offers no evidence, however, from the notebooks or other original Edison sources. Passer similarly discusses Edison's reasoning and concepts in Electrical Manufacturers (pp. 82, 84, and 89). Dyer and Martin's Edison (1: 244—60), parallels the memorandum attributed to Edison in 1926. Josephson's Edison (pp. 193-204, 211-220) stresses Edison's use of Ohm's law but does not note the importance of Edison's having used Ohm's law in conjunction with Joule's law in order to conceptualize his system. Josephson also dates Edison's first high-resistance lamp as January 1879 (a platinum filament), but gives no source for the statement (ibid., p. 199); nor does he provide a source for the statement that Edison came to the idea for high resistance in a "flash of inspiration" 32

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58

NETWORKS OF POWER noted, Edison and Upton saw that the cost of copper, especially that which depended on the cross-sectional area and the length of the conductors, was a major variable in the overall cost equation. Large and long conductors would raise the price of electric light above that of gas. To keep conductor length down, Edison sought a densely populated consumer area; to keep the cross-sectional area small, he had to reason further, using the laws of Ohm and Joule. T h e notebooks show that Edison and Upton used Joule's law (heat or energy = current x resistance = voltage x current) to calculate the amount of energy that would be expended by the incandescent filaments. They also used an adaptation of that law to show energy loss in the conductors. Energy loss was taken to be proportional to the current times the length of the conductor times a constant dependent upon the quality of the copper used, all divided by the cross-secdonal area of the conductor (energy loss proportional to C La/S). T h e formula posed an enigma, for if Edison increased the cross section of the copper conductors to reduce loss in distribution, he would increase copper costs, which was to be avoided. Obviously, a trade-off, to use the jargon of the engineering profession, was in order.There was, however, another variable—the current—to consider. If current could be reduced, then the cross-secdonal area of the conductors need not be so large. But current was needed to light the incandescents, so how was one to reduce it? 2

54

2

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To solve the dilemma, Edison and Upton could have reasoned as follows. Wandng to reduce the current in order to lower conductor losses, they realized that they could compensate and maintain the level of energy transfer to the lamps by raising the voltage proportionately (H = C X V). T h e n they brought Ohm's law into play (resistance equals voltage divided by current). It was a eureka moment, for they realized that by increasing the resistance of the incandescent-lamp filament They would raise the voltage ih~relationship to the current. (Resistance was the value of the ratio.) T h u s began the time-consuming search for material suitable for a high-resistance filament. T h e notable invention was this logical deduction; the filament was a hunt-and-try affair. Edison's reasoning can be illustrated with a simple example using approximate, rounded-off values. In 1879 he obtained a carbonized-paper filament whose resistance ranged from 130 ohms cold to about 70-80 ohms heated. In order to arrive at a lamp whose candlepower was equivalent to that of gas, he found, this filament would require—in present-day units— 56

after 8 September 1878 (ibid., p. 194). Bright's Electric-Lamp Industry does not offer any additional information on the way in which Edison conceived of his system. Jehl's Reminiscences remains the most suggestive published source, despite the book's lack of organization; see 1; 214-15, 2 4 3 - i 5 , 255-56, and 2; 8 2 0 - 2 1 , 852-54. Menlo Park Notebook no. 3 (21 November 1878), p. 107, and Notebook no. 9 (15 December 1878-10 March 1879), p. 4 1 , contain some of the many early entries involving Ohm's law. In Notebook no. 6, pp. 11 ff., Joule's law is mentioned; the dates in this notebook (4 December 1878-30 January 1879, indicate that Edison was using Joule's law early in his electric lighting project. In Notebook no. 10 (December 1878-January 1879), the word "Joule" is jotted down where the equation H = C R is used. Menlo Park Notebook no. 12, pp. 174-76. M e n l o Park Notebook no. 52 (31 July 1879), p. 229; the entry is dated 15 December 1879. 34

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INVENTION AND DEVELOPMENT the equivalent of about 100 watts. This meant that the product of the voltage across the lamp and the current must equal 100 watts. Since the resistance was 100 ohms, the current had to be 1 amp, for according to Joule's law the heat energy was equal to the product of C and the resistance (100 = C x 100; C = 1). It then followed that the voltage must be 100 in order to fulfill the energy need (H = C x V; V = 100/1 = 100). Therefore, the approximate specifications of the lamps in Edison's system in today's terminology were 100 watts, 100 volts, 1 amp, and 100 o h m s . Another possible explanation for the decision to seek high resistance, and a complementary one, was the search for a platinum filament with a small surface of radiation. T h e objective was to maintain the incandescent material of the filament at a high temperature with a low expenditure of energy. To do this Edison shaped the filament into a spiral, thereby reducing the radiating surface as well as the size of the filament. T h e experimentation with small surfaces of radiation resulted in higher-resistance filaments. With Francis Upton's help, Edison could then have ascertained the effect of higher resistance on the entire circuit. They could have serendipitously discovered the advantages of high resistance. T h e funds raised in part by Lowrey for personnel and equipment allowed the simultaneous invention and development of other components of the system besides the incandescent lamp. Upton, for instance, was especially active in the design and construction of an appropriate generator. T h e generators on the market—for instance, the Siemens, Wallace, and Gramme— were designed for arc lights wired in series. A network of feeder wires and distribution mains for the distribution network also received considerable attention. T h e inventive ideas embodied in the various versions of the components of the system resulted in a large family of patents covering the Edison system. In the fall of 1879, about the same time that Edison and his assistants obtained a filament with the high resistance and durability desired, Menlo Park announced impressive progress in the design of an incandescent-lamp generator. On 18 October 1879 Scientific American carried an article—unsigned, but written by Upton—describing the generator. In contrast to the earlier, high-resistance generators of other inventors, the Edison generator had low internal resistance. T h e article claimed that it would obtain nearly double the foot-pounds of energy from the same input that earlier generators had achieved, or an efficiency of 90 percent. Although original in terms of the specifics that were designed for the incandescent system, the generator was based on experiments done at Menlo Park with the gener2

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' In January 1881 Edison conducted an economy test of the electric lighting system installed at Menlo Park to demonstrate its practicability. This was a prelude to his installation of a fullsize system at the Pearl Street station in New York City in 1882. In the test he used two lamp sizes, 16 c.p.and 8 c.p. T h e 16-c.p. lamp depended on an electromotive force of 104.25 volts and a resistance of 114 ohms; therefore, the current in the 16-c.p. lamp was .9 amps. See C. L. Clarke, "An Economy Test of the Edison Electric Light at Menlo Park, 1881," dated 7 February 1881, and published for the first time in Committee on St. Louis Exposition of Association of Edison Illuminating Companies, Edwonia: A brief History of tile Early Edison Electric Lighting System (New York: Association of Edison Illuminating Companies, 1904), pp. 166-78. Derganc, "Edison and His Electric Lighting System," pp. 55-56. M

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NETWORKS OF POWER ators of Gramme, Wallace, and others. In fact, the publicity for the Edison generator exaggerated its excellence compared with other inventors' generators. T h e Edison generator was designed for a system of incandescent lamps connected in parallel and, therefore, a system with low resistance. It correctly had a low internal resistance to match the low external resistance. To compare it with a high-resistance arc-light generator designed for a system of arc-lights connected in series, however, was not appropriate. T h e Edison generator was not designed for arc lights in series. Still, the claims made about the generator excited much professional and public reaction, as was usually the case with the well-publicized Edison inventions, and Edison should be given credit for seeing the need to design components systematically in relationship to others in the system—a truth other inventors failed to g r a s p . Believing late in 1879 that the essential design of the incandescent lamp and generator would prove practical, Edison and his associates shifted their emphasis to development of the components and the system. This meant increased stress on economic factors. As early as 1880 they were calculating the cost of a central station of 10,000 lamps, possibly in anticipation of the planned central station for New York City's Pearl Street. They had experimented enough to estimate that 1 h.p. from a steam engine and generator could supply eight 16-c.p. lamps. Therefore they needed about 1,200 h.p. for their system. T h e calculations that followed this assumption involved fixed capital, operating expenses, and other costs (see Fig. II.6). Finally, assuming that the 10,000 lamps would be used five hours out of every twenty-four, and knowing what gas companies charged for five hours of equivalent light, they calculated the surplus income of an electric utility charging the same price for light. Edison and the parent Edison company holding the patents would receive payment from a surplus income of $90,886. 59

60

As development proceeded, Edison advanced the level of experimentation from components to laboratory-scale models of the system and then to a small, pilot-scale system for lighting Menlo Park in December 1879. Because the components were new and because Edison wanted to control their manufacture, Lowrey assisted in the formation of several companies. Edison had to draw heavily on his own resources to fund these manufacturing companies. Edison and Lowrey also founded an operating company to build a central-station system that would both function commercially and serve as a demonstration for potential franchise purchasers. T h e organization and management of the companies formed by Lowrey and Edison in connection with the electric lighting system have been de59

For the reaction of the scientific community to Edison, Edison's inventions, and especially the claims made for the generator, see David Hounshell, "Edison and the Pure Science Ideal in Nineteenth-Century America," Scientific American, February 1980, p. 614. More general reactions are analyzed in Jean-Jacques Salomon, "Public Reactions to Science and Technology: T h e Wizard Faces Social Judgment," in Science, Technology and the Human Prospect, ed. C. Starr and P. Ritterbush (New York: Pergamon Press, 1980), pp. 77-93.1 am indebted to Dr. Thomas Simpson of St. J o h n ' s College, Sante Fe, New Mexico, for his views in comparing arc-light and incandescent-lamp generators. For a discussion of this cost analysis, see Hughes, "Electrification of America," pp. 1 3 3 35. 60

61

39 Figure 11.6. Edison's estimate for a 10,000-lamp central station. From Menlo 'ark Notebook no. 120 (1880). Courtesy of the Edison Archives, Edison National Historic Site, West Orange, N.J.

INVENTION AND DEVELOPMENT Capital Investment:

Depreciation

Power plan: building Boilers and auxiliary equipment Steam engines and dynamos Auxiliary electrical equipment Conductors Meters Total Operating and O t h e r Expenses: Labor (Daily): Chief engineer $ 5.00 Assistant engineer 3.00 Wiper 1,50 Principal.fireman 2.25 Assistant fireman 1.75 Chief'voltage regulator 2.25 Assistant voltage regulator 1.75 . Two laborers 3,00 Total $20.50 Labor (Annual) . Other; Executive w-ages (annual) . Rent, insurance and taxes Depreciation. . . . . Coal (annual) (S2.80/ton;: 3 # / h . p . hour;. 5 hours daily: l,200 h,.p.) Oil, waste, and water Lamps (30.000 at 35c each)

$

8,500 30.180 48,000 2,000. 57,000 5,000

'

27c 10% 3% 2% 2% 5%

$

5150,680

170 3,018 1.440 40 1,140 250

$6,058

$ 7,482: $ 4.000 7,000 . 6.058 8.212

2.737 10,500

Total . $45,989 • Estimated Minimum Income from 10,000 Installed Lamps • •. -Expenses

-

$136,875 45,939 $ 90.836

6 1

scribed well e l s e w h e r e . H e r e it is i m p o r t a n t to stress that t h e pristine character of the c o m p a n i e s manifested Edison's determination to create a c o h e r e n t s y s t e m . T h e first c o m p a n y — t h e E d i s o n Electric L i g h t C o m p a n y ( E E L C ) — w a s f o r m e d on 15 O c t o b e r 1878 essentially to f u n d Edison's inv e n t i o n , r e s e a r c h , a n d d e v e l o p m e n t projects a n d to b r i n g a r e t u r n on his i n v e s t m e n t t h r o u g h the sale or licensing of patents on the system t h r o u g h o u t the world. T h e E d i s o n Electric Illuminating C o m p a n y of N e w York, a utility, or o p e r a t i n g , c o m p a n y , was i n c o r p o r a t e d in D e c e m b e r 1 8 8 0 as a licensee of the p a r e n t E d i s o n Electric Light C o m p a n y . U n d e r Edison's personal supervision, the E E I C would build the central generating station o n Pearl Street i n N e w Y o r k City w h i c h b e g a n c o m m e r c i a l o p e r a t i o n i n S e p t e m b e r 1 8 8 2 . I n 1 8 8 1 E d i s o n also established i n N e w Y o r k City t h e E d i s o n M a c h i n e W o r k s to build d y n a m o s and the Edison Electric T u b e C o m p a n y to manufacture underground conductors. T h e Edison Lamp Works, o r g a n i z e d in 1880, t u r n e d out incandescent lamps in quantity (see Fig. II.7). E d i s o n also e n t e r e d into a p a r t n e r s h i p with S i g m u n d B e r g m a n n , a f o r m e r E d i s o n e m p l o y e e , to set up a c o m p a n y to p r o d u c e various accesPasser, Electrical Manufacturers.

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NETWORKS OF POWER

Figure U.7. The incandescent-lamp factory, Menlo Park, 1880, part of the Edison manufacturing system. Executive staff (front row, left to right): Philip Dyer, William Hammer, Francis Upton, and James Bradley. Courtesy of tlie Edison Archives, Edison National Historic site, West Orange, N.J.

sories. As engineer and manager, Edison was the pivotal figure in all of these companies during the early years, but for him the focus and the commitment remained invention (see Fig. I I . 8 ) . T h e history of the design and construction of the Pearl Street Station of the Edison Electric Illuminating Company has been told by m a n y . One especially serious engineering problem encountered in the construction of the station was the laying down of the distribution system underground. As noted earlier, the cost of the distribution system was a critical problem 62

62

Of the secondary works, Matthew Josephson's Edison tells the story with unusual clarity and interest and includes an extensive bibliography of articles about the historic station. The Edison Pioneers have recounted their experiences and other authors have celebrated the achievement on various anniversaries of the station's opening. Essays by Edison's contemporaries can be found, for example, in the Association of Edison Illuminating Companies' Edisonia. Especially valuable because of its extensive reprinting of early source material and information on the Pearl Street station and the Edison Electric Illuminating Co. is Payson Jones's History of the Consolidated Edison System. T h e Consolidated Edison Co. of New York is a successor company to the EEIC.

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INVENTION AND DEVELOPMENT TrW EDISON i l ^ C T R I C LTCrfT COiCPANY

P a r e n t o f a l l g d i s o n e l e c t r i c l i g h t e n t e r p r i s e s , o r g a n i z e d b y C r o s v e n o r P . Lowrey a s a m e a n 8 o f f i n a n c i n g Thomas A . S d l s o n * s I n v e n t i o n o f a c o m p l e t e i n c a n d e s c e n t e l e c t r i c l i g h t eyatsm and o f p r o m o t i n g i t s a d o p t i o n t h r o u g h o u t t h e w o r l d . I n c o r p o r a t e d O c t o b e r 1 5 , 1 8 7 8 : merged w i t h i t a own s u b s i d i a r y The S d i a o n Company ?or I s o l a t e d L i g h t i n g December J l . 1336 t o form "Sdiaon E l e c t r i c L i g h t Coo pan y , " w h i c h wae e u c c e e d e d a s t h e p a r e n t S d l s o n e n t e r p r i s e by t h e 3DIS0N GJ?NSRAL 3L3CTRIC COMPANY i n 1 8 8 ^ and t h e G 2 N 3 R A L SLSCTRIC COMPANY i n 1 8 9 2 . C o n t r o l o f s u b o r d i n a t e c o m p a n i e s m a i n t a i n e d by l i c e n s e o o n t r s c t a or sgreemanta. .

THt UDISON SL3CTRIC ILLUMINATING COMPANY OP NSW YORK, l i c e n s e e o f t h e p a r e n t S d i a o n S l e c t r i c L i g h t Company and b u i l d e r of New York C i t y * e pioneer Pearl Street S t a t i o n . Founded b y T h o a a s A . S d i s o n , C r o s v e n o r P . Lowrey and o t h e r s . I n c o r p o r a t e d December I7i 1 8 8 0 ; c e n t r a l s t a t i o n s e r v i c e s t a r t e d Septenber 1882. Predecessor of t h e ( o l d ) Mew York S d i s o n Company and t h e p r e s e n t C o n s o l i d a t e d S d i s o n Coopany o f New Y o r k . Inc.

T H i SDISON U A C K X Y 3 WOSXS, an I m m e d i a t e o u t g r o w t h o f Thomas A . S d i a o n ' s Menlo Park Machine Shop, I n 1881 e s t a b l i s h e d a t 10U Goerck S t r e e t , New York C i t y and M a n u f a c t u r e r o f P e a r l S t r e e t ' s w o r l d famous S d i e o n "Jumbo" dynamos - A p r e d e c e s s o r o f t h e G e n e r a l S l e c t r i c Company. THS (SDISON) SLSCTRIC TUBS COMPANY, 65 Washi n g t o n S t r e e t , New York C i t y , e s t a b l i s h e d b y Thomas A . S d i s o n I n 1 8 8 1 . Builder of the Pearl S t r e e t S y s t e m ' s underground c o n d u c t o r s . Merged by The 3 d l a o n Machine Works In l B S p .

THS SDISON SLSCTRIC ILLUMINATING COMPANY 0? BROOKLYN, a l i c e n s e e o f t h e p a r e n t S d l s o n S l e o t r i c L i g h t Company. Founded by Jdvard H* J o h n s o n • Slgmund Bergmann and o t h e r S d l s o n p i o n e e r s . I n c o r p o r a t e d Maroh 10» 1 8 8 7 ; c e n t r a l s t a t i o n s e r v i c e s t a r t e d September 2 , l B B ^ . Predeceeeor of t h e p r e s e n t B r o o k l y n S d i a o n Company, I n c . , a s u b s i d i a r y o f t h e C o n s o l i d a t e d S d i a o n Company o f New Y o r k , I n o ,

THS SDISON LAMP SORKS, e s t a b l i s h e d at Menlo Park i n 1880 b y Thomae A . S d i s o n . F r a n c i s R . U p t o n , C h a r l e s B a t e h e l o r and Edward H . J o h n a o n , a l l o f whom w e r e P e a r l S t r e e t p e r i o d d i r e c t o r s o f t h e f i r s t New York S d i e o n Company I n t h e f o l l o w i n g decade* Operator o f t h e w o r l d ' s f i r s t i n c a n d e s c e n t e l e c t r i c lamp f a c t o r y a t Menlo P a r k , I n w h i c h w e r e p r o d u c e d t h e bamboo f i l a m e n t c a r b o n lamps l i g h t e d b y t h e P e a r l S t r e e t S t a t i o n i n 1882, I n c o r p o r a t e d a s t h e S d l s o n Lamp Company i n 1 8 8 U . A p r e d e c e s s o r o f t h e G e n e r a l S l e c t r i c Company*

0TH3R SDISOW SLSCTRIC ILLUMINATIHC COMPANIES. I n many American c i t i o o S d i s o n e l e c t r i c i l l u minating oompanles were organized aa l i c e n e e e s o f t h e p a r e n t S d l s o n S l e c t r i c L i g h t Company, w h i c h owned t h e p a t e n t r i g h t s t o S d i s o n ' a e l s e • trio light inventions. I a t h i s way t h e S d l s o n e l e c t r i c l i g h t system spread throughout the United S t a t e e . * -

BSRCMAVN a COMPANY, f o u n d e r s of t h e e l e c t r i c l i g h t a c c e s s o r i s e manufacturing i n d u s t r y . - S s t a c l i s . n s d a t 1 0 8 - 1 1 * W o o s t e r S t r e e t , New York C i t y » early in 1881. O r i g i n a l p a r t n e r s * e r o Sljmund &*rjj'aann and Edward K. J o h n s o n , a f t e r w a r d J o i n e d b y Thomas A . i d i e o n . Manufactured equipment f o r pioneor Pearl Street Syatea. A predecessor of the C s n w a l tSlectrJ.C Company*

SDrSGH COMPANY FOB ISOLATE LIGHTING, a s t o c k c o n t r o l l e d subsidiary of the o r i g i n a l Sdleon S l e e t r i o L i g h t Company, o r g a n i z e d i n 1 6 8 1 * and merged w i t h t h e p a r e n t company t o form "Edison S l e o t r i c L i g h t Company" I n 1 8 8 6 . ?HS THOMAS A, SDISON CONSTRUCTION D3PAHTMSNT, o r g a n i z e d by Thomas A. S d l s o n and merged by The S d i s o n Coopany For I s o l a t e d L i g h t i n g p r i o r t o October 2 8 , 1 8 8 * .

UNITED SDISQM MANUFACTURING COMPANY, o r g a n i z e d In the l a t e 1880'a aa a subsidiary of the three S d l s o n m a n u f a c t u r i n g c o m p a n i e s ) S d i a o n Machine Works, S d l s o n Lamp Company and Bergmann a Company.

Figure 11.8. Edison's manufacturing system. From Jones, History of the Consolidated Edison System, p. 13. Courtesy of the Consolidated Edison Co, of New York.

that Edison recognized early in the development of the system, and thus, inventive talent and developmental skills were heavily invested in the problem. Subsequently, other utilities also found that distribution and transmission were problems of the first order, the popular attention given to lamps and generators notwithstanding. The electrical network is, after all, the essence of the system. Edison's ultimate objective was to introduce central-station supply. A central station would distribute electric light to the public, in contrast to generating plants, or isolated stations, which would be used only by theiif owners. The steam boilers, steam engines, generators, and auxiliary equipment would be housed in the station building itself; from the central station the distribution system would, in the case of New York City, fan overman area of one square mile. Edison chose 257 Pearl Street, in the financial district, as the location of the New York CSty"s"ta5on. So located, the central station would supply restaurants and shops that could afford the new light as a way of attracting customers and would illuminate workplaces and offices that coulcf afford it as an unusually effective light without hazardous

64

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NETWORKS OF POWER and noxious fumes. In the Wall Street district, the station would also catch the attention of financiers and the investing public, persons who were needed to fund Edison stations elsewhere. In 1882 Edison was in New York supervising construction of the Pearl Street system. As chief engineer, he spent long hours, week after week, not in an office, but out with the workers sweating in the hot summer sun as they wrestled with the new and difficult task of laying the underground cables for the Pearl Street station. Edison did not stop at supervision; he worked in the dug-out trenches with the laborers, responding to the most minute problems, many of which arose from the difficulties of maintaining adequate insulation. Often after a frantic day unregulated by the clock, he would sleep for only a few hours on piles of tubes stacked in the stadon building, his bed place softened only by his overcoat. Invention continued as problems arose during the development and engineering phases of construction. Edison applied for 60 patents in 1880, 89 patents in 1881, and 107 in 1882. Most covered inventions pertaining to the electric lighting system. Only once again in his lifedme, in 1883, a year in which he applied for 64 patents, would the total n u m b e r of his patents reach the level applied during the three years he dedicated to electric lighting. On 4 September 1882 J o h n W. I.ieb, an Edison electrician, threw the switch that fed current from a J u m b o generator in the Pearl Street station to the first of the lamps installed in the district. T h e generators bore the name of the great elephant brought to America by P. T. Barnum. Edison switched on the lamps in 23 Wall Street, the offices of Drexel, Morgan and Company. T h e single generator was driven by a directly connected PorterAllen engine supplied with steam from Babcock & Wilcox boilers (the two components of the system which were unusual in that they had not been built by Edison). Initially, only about one-third of the one-square-mile district to be supplied from the station had current and only four hundred lamps were lit. In place, but not operating the first day, were five other Jumbos, steam engines, and boilers. The noncondensing Porter-Allen steam engines were rated at 125 nominal h.p., weighed about 6,500 pounds, took steam at 120 pounds per square inch of pressure, and ran at 350 revolutions per minute. They were designed to light twelve hundred 16-c.p. lamps. When cooled with an air blast, the machines could supply 850 amps at 115—120 volts. T h e generators weighed about seven times more than the steam engines driving them. 63

*xa*r'_ftrr'#(i 47?'..

Figure 11.9. Thomas Edison, 1882. Courtesy of t)ie Edison Archives, Edison National Historic Site, West Orange, N.J.

Control and regulation, vital functions in this and subsequent supply systems, have been overlooked by many historians, but they were not overlooked by Edison and his associates (see Fig. 11.10). Voltage regulation was obtained by inserting and removing resistance from the field circuit of the generators. An automadc indicator utilizing an electromagnet connected across the main circuit indicated the voltage level. If the voltage was within one or two volts of the desired amount, the indicator arm, the armature of the electromagnet, remained in a neutral position in balance between the pull of the electromagnet and the pull of a delicately adjusted spring. If the line voltage rose, the armature would swing under the influence of " A r t h u r E. Kennelly, "Thomas Edison," in National Academy of Sciences, Biographical Memoirs (Washington, D.C., 1943), p. 301.

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43

INVENTION AND DEVELOPMENT the stronger magnetic field toward the electromagnet and close a contact, thereby lighting a red lamp; if the line voltage dropped, the attraction of the electromagnet weakened and the spring exerted the greater pull, causing the armature to reverse its swing and to close the low-side contacts and light a blue lamp. The attendant accordingly turned a handwheel to control the amount of field resistance. To devise such a control to match output and load was simple for Edison, for electromagnetic devices, like relays, were the essence of the telegraph he knew so well. Edison's station was noted for its handling of material and for its economical engineering. An uninterrupted flow of material and energy would later characterize power plant engineering. A 20-h.p. engine drove a screw conveyor for lifting coal from the vault under the building to a position above the boilers where the coal dropped by gravity into the stoke hole of the boiler. Another screw conveyor took ashes from beneath the grates and discharged them into a container under the sidewalk. The exhaust from the steam engines passed through feed-water heaters and then into the atmosphere; a fan forced combustion air into the furnace and cooling air onto the generator commutator. Under full headway, the four boilers, rated at 240 h.p. each, would consume about five tons of coal and 11,500 gallons of water per day (see Fig. II. 11). Initially, the most serious problem arose when two generator sets were connected in parallel. The governors of the two steam engines began to hunt, first cutting off and then providing steam for full power. Edison • found an ingenious means of temporarily correcting the anomaly by mechanically connecting the governors of the steam engines. In November 1882, however, two Armington & Sims engines were substituted for the Porter-Allen engines, and when these operated successfully with generators connected in parallel, all of the Porter-Allen engines were replaced. It is interesting to note that this difficulty involved a component that was not designed and built by Edison for the system. Countless other problems plagued the station during the breaking-in period. Current leaked from conductors and junction boxes under the streets. In addition, there were fires from faulty wiring. Slowly, however, service increased. On 1 October 1882, a few weeks after service began, wiring was in place for 1,626 lamps in the district and 1,284 were in use; on 1 October the following year there was wiring for 11,555 lamps and 8,573 were in use. The Pearl Street station remained in service until 2 January 1890, when a disastrous fire shut down the original sysTemTTh^n, on 12 January of that year, a reconstructed station began supplying current from Pearl Street. On 1 April 1894 the station was retired and the building was sold. Then only a plaque marked the historic site where Edison demonstrated so effectively his system for generating, controlling, distributing, measuring, and utilizing electricity for lighting. If the Pearl Street station had not been part of a business as well as a technological system, however, it might not have survived until the fire of 1890. A similar station in London was abandoned several years after its founding, for financial and political reasons (see pp. 55—62 below). The 64

v

64

This account of the station and its equipment is based in part on Hughes, Thomas Edison, pp. 29-36. *

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NETWORKS OF POWER

Figure n.U. Pearl Street station, 1882: Engineering drawings. From Association of Edison Illuminating Companies, Edisonia, p. 64.

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INVENTION AND DEVELOPMENT Pearl Street station and the Edison Electric Illuminating Company (EEIC) were sustained not only because of the capital invested in the plant and the company but also because the other companies of the Edison system' depended on them as showpieces and inducements for others to purchase Edison franchises and Edison equipment. This part of the early Edison history is rarely mentioned in the Edison lore; Edison and his associates were reluctant to release any detailed operating figures at the time. The annual reports of the parent Edison Electric Light Company and correspondence now available, however, provide evidence of the EEIC's near collapse. The EEIC did not charge customers for electricity in 1882 and showed a loss of over $12,000 for the first two quarters of 1883, followed by a net loss for the year. In 1885 the company reported a net income of 6 percent on its capital investment of $828,800 and declared a 4 percent dividend. The latter may have been intended to encourage investors, who were needed for the construction of a new central station uptown. The company predicted that the new station would be more profitable because the newer Edison three-wire distribution system would lower costs substantially and because the load in the new district would be more evenly distributed to accommodate use at all hours of the day or night. The relationship between regularity of load and per-unit cost (load factor) had been recognized as a critical problem. Nevertheless, Edison encountered difficulties in funding the expansion. The Edison Electric Light Company, the owner of one-quarter of the EEIC's operating stock, appropriated $171,200 of this stock as a trust fund to assist in raising funds. Despite this, the promise of larger profits from the new station, and the further inducement of a 20 percent bonus on the new expansion stock to EEIC stockholders, the company still experienced difficulties. A private canvassing of stockholders revealed that not one-tenth of the million and a half dollars authorized could be raised from this source. The prominent financier Henry Villard, an investor in Edison stock who was then residing in his native Germany after a reverse of his American fortunes, heard from'his American correspondent that informed opinion was disgusted with the entire Edison business and believed that Edison officials were getting rich at the expense of EEIC stockholders. Villard's correspondent advised him to ignore the rosy, vague promises of the company's officials and not to purchase the expansion stock. Faced by the apathy of such stockholders, the company then formed a guarantee syndicate with the promise of profit for syndicate participants in the form of a large bonus of EEIC stock. News of this venture was passed on to Villard in February 1886 with the advice that he not "touch it with a ten-foot pole." Finally, a "Drexel Morgan Syndicate" with heavy investments in the Edison system "[squeezed] out some money somewhere." 65

66

67

68

63

See p. 71 below. Edison Electric Light Co., Annual Report, 1883 (New York: EEIC, 1884); and Edison Electric Illuminating Co., Annual Report, 1885 (New York: EEIC, 1886). C. A. Spofford to Henry Villard, 12 January, 18 January, 25 January, and 26 February 1886, Box 124, Villard Papers, Harvard University Library, Cambridge, Mass. Spofford to Viliard, 26 February 1886, Villard Papers. 86

67

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NETWORKS OF POWER Not only surviving but expanding, the EEIC, a critical component of Edison's system, seems to have stimulated the sale of Edison franchises by the parent company and of equipment by the manufacturing companies. The sale of franchises in major cities proceeded briskly at the same time that, behind the scenes, Edison's backers were having difficulty financing their showpiece. By 1888, large Edison companies or utilities were located in Detroit, Michigan; New Orleans, Louisiana; St. Paul, Minnesota; Chicago, Illinois; Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; and Brooklyn, New York. Abroad, central lighting stadons had been established in Milan and Berlin. In 1890 the New York udlity reported dramatic growth since 1888: the number of its customers had risen from 710 to 1,698; the number of lamps (16 c.p.) used had increased from 16,377 to 64,174; and the company's net earnings had nearly doubled, jumping from $116,235 to $229,078. Indicative of the approach of a new era of electric power, in 1889 the company reported the first "motorload" (470 h.p.). 69

EdisoA Electric Illuminating Co., Annual Report, 1890. (New York: EEIC, 1891).

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George Eastman's Modern Stone-Age Family Snapshot Photography and the Brownie

MARC

OLIVIER

Before the snapshot, photography was largely a gentleman's hobby, a pastime that required technical skill and costly equipment. George Eastman, founder of the Eastman Kodak Company, transformed the practice of photography— first in 1888 by replacing the complexities of wet-plate processing with a twenty-five-dollar handheld camera (preloaded with film for a hundred exposures and advertised with the slogan, "You press the button, we do the rest"), and then, in 1900, by democratizing the snapshot with the simple and affordable one-dollar "Brownie" camera. By 1905, an estimated ten million Americans had become amateur photographers, most of whom were previously excluded from photographic expression because of gender, age, or economic status.' That women and children were particularly targeted is evidenced in the decision to name the dollar camera after the Brownies, who were invisible sprites of Scottish folklore that writer and illustrator Palmer Cox (1840-1924) had commercialized through a series of illustrated poems and an unprecedented number of product endorsements that had appeared in popular women's and children's magazines from the 1880s onward. Although hardly innovative in itself, Eastman's appropriation of Cox's Brownies takes on particular importance when considered in the larger context of an emerging generation of snapshot photographers. The aggressive marketing of the Brownie camera redefined not only who could take

Marc Olivier is associate professor of French at Brigham Young University. His publications focus on literature, science, and technology and include studies of microscopy and literature, Rousseau and botany, and the popular dissemination of natural history. He was guest curator at Brigham Young University's Museum of Ait for "Nostalgia and Technology" an exhibition on the socialization of domestic technology from the seventeenth century to the present. ©2007 by the Society for the History of Technology. All rights reserved. OO40-165Xy07/4801-0001$8.00 1. Graham King, Say "Cheese"! The Snapshot as Art and Social History (London, 1986), 9.

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TECHNOLOGY AND CULTURE photographs, but for what purpose. As I argue here, Eastman's conflation of the product with its commercialized mythic namesake was a campaign to portray snapshot photography as a p h e n o m e n o n both modern and magic, one that fulfilled the primitive urge toward visual communication. Superficially, this may seem no more than a ploy to reach a broad, new consumer base. The Kodak trade circulars, advertising ephemera, and correJ A N U A R Y spondence archived at the George Eastman House in Rochester, New York, 2007 and the materials related to Palmer Cox at the Strong Museum, also in V O L 48 Rochester, tell another story, however. At a deeper level, Eastman's exploitation of a figure steeped in folklore actually offered a magical alternative to textual narrative. This study focuses on the marketing of the Brownie camera from its introduction in 1900 to 1914 and the discontinuation of the "Brownie Book," also known as "The Book of the Brownies" (Brownie-specific advertising brochures aimed at children). It revisits the importance of the Brownie in Kodak history and explores the social impact of an emerging technology. The complex history of the Brownie combines the study of folklore, the history of advertising, and the history of snapshot photography. If Eastman's biographers and the historians of Kodak have often trivialized the toy-like box camera, they have followed a tradition that grants artistic merit to photography largely on the basis of technical skill. Paul Sternberger's study of amateur photography and art demonstrates that contempt for the "press-the-button-we-do-the-rest-amateur" during the earliest years of snapshot photography extended beyond the professional community and into amateur photographic societies longing to establish 2

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2.1 would like to thank Kathy Connor, George Eastman House archivist, who facilitated my access to Eastman's correspondence and a collection of materials related to the Brownie camera, as well as Todd Gustavson, technology curator, who helped me with the collection of cameras, packaging, and select trade brochures. The Richard and Ronay Menschel Library at the Eastman House (with more than 43,000 volumes about photography and film) was also useful for its large collection of trade journals. The Strong Museum, also in Rochester, New York, has an excellent collection of advertising ephemera related to Palmer Cox's Brownies as well as first-edition copies of his series of Brownie books. I also thank David Hughes, secretary and magazine editor for the Kodak Brownie Collectors Group in England, for supplementing my materials with a copy of the 1902 "The Book of the Brownies," which is not available at the Eastman House. 3. Elizabeth Brayer devotes less than two pages (of 529) to the Brownie, making it a footnote to the development of Kodak in George Eastman: A Biography (Baltimore, 1996). Carl W. Ackerman's otherwise superior biography mentions the Brownie on only one page {George Eastman [Boston, 1930]). Douglas Collins devotes approximately one paragraph to that camera in The Story of Kodak (New York, 1990). In The Snapshot Photograph: The Rise of Popular Photography (London, 1977), Brian Coe and Paul Gates include a brief chapter on the Brownie. Outside of specialized collectors' groups, the most thorough treatment of the Brownie camera has been that of Nancy Martha West in Kodak and the Lens of Nostalgia (Charlottesville, Va., 2000), who nevertheless fails to mention "The Brownie's Story of the Brownie."

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their legitimacy. Further removing the Brownie from serious discussion, the Eastman Kodak Company warned in 1900 that "The Brownie is not a Kodak" and urged retailers to shun such brand-demeaning slogans as "A genuine Eastman Kodak for 99 cents." Consequentiy, the camera that brought snapshot photography to the masses is usually credited as doing just that and nothing more. Relatively little scholarly attention has been paid to the meaning of the campaign that offered a new form of expression to millions of consumers. The Brownie tends to lose its historical specificity in works treating snapshot photography, and is often overshadowed by its more expensive predecessor, the Kodak Number 1 of 1888. Moreover, despite its evocative name, the Brownie has received no attention from scholars of folklore, who must contend with a disciplinary bias against technology. It is easy to imagine that a folkloric approach to Eastman's Brownie yields a cautionary tale of how "products of the imagination are in danger of becoming instrumentalized and commercialized." 5

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4. B. F. McManus, quoted in Paul Spencer Sternberger, Between Amateur and Aesthete: The Legitimization of Photography as Art in America, 1880-1900 (Albuquerque, N.M., 2001), 112 and chap. 4. 5. Kodak trade circular, no. 4 (March 1900), 1 (all "trade circulars" were published in Rochester by the Eastman Kodak Company). The Brownie was meant to be an entrylevel camera for children who would grow into life-long consumers of the more expensive Kodak line. The reality of consumer response is addressed later in this article. 6. Effectively bypassing the Brownie in her fascinating study, Marianne Hirsch references the 1888 Kodak and then concludes: "Thus photography quickly became the family's primary instrument of self-knowledge and representation" {Family Frames: Photography, Narrative, and Postmemory [Cambridge, Mass., 1997], 6). Mary Warner Marieo's Photography: A Cultural History (New York, 2002), 169, indudes a passing reference. Douglas R. Nickel's introductory essay to the catalog Snapshots: The Photography of Everyday Life, 1888 to the Present (San Francisco, 1998) contains a balanced, if brief, view of the culture generated by Eastman's Brownie and Kodak cameras (pp. 9-15). Geoffrey Batchen employs categories from material culture to study "vernacular photo objects" in Each Wild Idea: Writing, Photography, History (Cambridge, Mass., 2001), 59. His work, as well as Patrick Maynard's The Engine of Visualization: Thinking through Photography (Ithaca, N.Y., 1997), Marianne Hirsch's Family Frames, and Julia Hirsch's Family Photographs: Content, Meaning, and Effect (Oxford, 1981) exemplify the historical and philosophical scholarship on photography that does not deal specifically with the Brownie. 7. Folklorists continue to struggle with the terms "folklore" and "technology" as opposing binaries. Often romanticized as the antithesis of civilization, the purity of the "folk" mythos is jeopardized by technology. See Barbara Kiishenblatt-Gimblett, "Folklore's Crisis," Journal of American Folklore (1998): 281-327, which points out the irony of using modern recording devices to preserve oral histories and tales while shunning those same devices as a legitimate part of a folk community. A pioneering attempt to contend with the romantic ideal of preindustrial peasant culture is Herman Bausinger's Folk Culture in a World of Technology, trans. Elke Dettmer (Bloomington, Ind., 1990). See also Regina Bendix, In Search of Authenticity: The Formation of Folklore Studies (Madison, Wise, 1997). 8. Jack David Zipes, Breaking the Magic Spell: Radical Theories of Folk and Fairy Tales (Lexington, Ky., 2002), 3. Zipes revolutionized the study of folklore and fairy tales by

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And yet, Eastman's "instrumentalization" of folklore begins with an already-exploited sprite, first commercialized nearly two decades earlier by Palmer Cox. Thus, in order to better reveal the significance of the Brownie camera, I will first explore the mutadons of its eponymous folkloric figure. After demonstrating how Cox transformed the sprite from solitary recluse to advocate of technology and "spokescreature," I will look at what makes Eastman's use of the character unique, and how the connections between it, the product, and the consumer helped define snapshot photography. Finally, I will consider how the Brownie character declined and was gradually replaced with "Brownie" boys and girls.

Cox's Transformation The original Brownie is a reclusive character, an invisible sprite of Scottish folktales. As a youth of Scotch-Irish descent, Cox is said to have "heard and absorbed the folklore of the Grampian Mountains of Scodand" at the firesides around his country home of Granby, Quebec. The typical Brownie of those tales would have been both a mischievous and helpful domestic creature, an unseen resident attached to a particular house. Properly rewarded with a well-placed bowl of cream or a bit of cake, the capricious servant was said to perform useful tasks while its adoptive human family slept. When offended, however, the Brownie could become a source of annoyance, plaguing the household with tricks. When Cox adapted the tales of his childhood for publication in American children's magazines and a series of illustrated books, the creatures were no longer solitary nor attached to a particular domestic space; they had become a self-governing, independent, and venturesome band (fig. I ) . As noted by Roger Cummings, w h o is the author of the only book-length study of Cox's Brownies: "The Brownie band is thoroughly democratic. Except in Palmer Cox's Brownies (the play), The Brownies and Prince Florimel, and The Brownie Clown ofBrownietown, none of the group is singled out as a permanent commander, leader, or guide." Moreover, the group became increasingly cosmopolitan as Cox introduced characters of various nationalities and occupations, the most popular of 9

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examining their social function with the tools of modern literary theory. He is one of the relatively few folklorists to address the relation between technology and the folk—usually in a manner that emphasizes the negative impact of technology. 9. Roger W. Cummings, Humorous but Wholesome: A History of Palmer Cox and the Brownies (Watkins Glen, N.Y., 1973), 16. 10. Marc Alexander, A Companion to the Folklore, Myths, and Customs of Britain (Stroud, U.K., 2002), 36. See also Alison Jones, Larousse Dictionary of World Folklore (Edinburgh, 1995), 82. 11. Cox began publishing illustrated poems about the Brownies in children's magazines in 1883. The first of the sixteen Brownie books was published in 1887. 12. Cummings, 113.

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FIG. 1 Illustrations of Brownies. (From Palmer Cox, Another Brownie Book [New York, 1890], 110. Courtesy of the L Tom Perry Special Collections, Harold B. Lee Library, Brigham Young University.) which included Dude, Rough Rider (modeled after Theodore Roosevelt), Chinaman, Irishman, Policeman, and Soldier. The combination of individualism, curiosity, industry, and harmonious social interaction suggests an Americanization of the Brownie. In the words of Cummings: 13

Though the Brownies are apolitical and emerge nightly from a region which is never geographically defined, to anyone who reads even a few of the Brownie books it is obvious that the world of the Brownies not only is Utopian, but embodies characteristics commonly associated with the American dream. 14

As evidence of Cummings's assertion, the skeptic need only consult the third in the series of Brownie books, The Brownies at Home (1893), in which outings include a trip to the White House, an excursion to the Pennsylvania State House (Independence Hall), and a preview of the 1893 Columbian Exposition in Chicago that culminates in the patriotic scene of the Brownies hoisting a giant American flag as their contribution to the World's Fair. Cox's Brownies, Americanized and Utopian, also loved to explore the wide world, both geographical and technological. Books such as The Brownies around the World (1894), The Brownies through the Union (1895), and The Brownies in the Philippines (1904) demonstrate a penchant for travel. But of greater import for this study is the interest in technology they manifest in their many adventures. In Another Brownie Book (1890), delighted Brownies take themselves for a wild ride on a new steam locomotive, investigate the workings of a tugboat in a canal, and study entomological specimens projected through a stereopticon machine. In that same collection of adventures, the Brownies experiment with the telephone—a device that less than 10 percent of readers across America would then find in their own homes. Cox's band of Brownies immediately adapts to life in the modern world: 15

13. See Lynda McCurdy, "Palmer Cox: Patriarch of Pint-Sized Pleasure," 1974, typescript, Strong Museum, 22-23. 14. Cummings (n. 9 above), 113-14. 15. See Claude S. Fischer, America Calling: A Social History of the Telephone to 1940 (Berkeley, Calif., 1992), 22.

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A telephone gave great delight To those who tried it half the night, Some asking after fresh supplies; Or if their stocks were on the rise; What ship was safe; what bank was firm; Or who desired a second term. Thus messages rant to and fro

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With "Who are you?" "Hallo!" "Hallo!" And all the repetitions known To those who use the telephone.

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Twenty years later, in The Brownies' Latest Adventures (1910), they once again champion the now more c o m m o n telephone by repairing broken lines and downed poles after a severe storm. Their work symbolizes a new role in linking domesticity to industry. Far from being the solitary nocturnal creatures of folklore, Cox's Brownies enjoy all the latest trappings of modernity and seem to prefer human technical achievement over their own magical powers. They effectively enchant the machines they use, thereby responding to the need for wonder in the modern age—a need articulated by Andre Kedros as "a modern marvel, capable of exorcising the menacing technological environment and showing the ways leading to the mastery no longer of nature, but of technology itself." The Brownies help anchor the shock of new technologies to traditions of unseen forces and magical helpers. Unlike their earlier folk counterparts, Cox's Brownies venture boldly beyond the home. In reinventing the reclusive Brownies as advocates of technological progress and democratic values, Palmer Cox quickly realized their potential for commercial endorsements. After first appearing in the p o e m "The Brownies' Ride," in the February 1883 issue of. St Nicholas magazine, by November of that year they were advertising Ivory Soap on the cover of Harpers Young People magazine, a debut that marked not only their emergence as spokescreatures but the beginning of modern commercial charac1

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16. Palmer Cox, Another Brownie Book (New York, 1890), 141. 17. Andre Kedros, "Le Merveilleux dans la litterature pour la jeunesse a Tere technologique," 15th Congress of International Board on Books for Young People (IBBY) 28 (1977): 23-31 (my translation). For a study of large-scale technological enchantment, see David E. Nye, American Technological Sublime (Cambridge, Mass., 1994). The effect generated by the spectacular projects examined in Nye's book differs from that produced by lesser technologies (such as the Brownie camera) that come to reside in the home. As Nye apdy demonstrates, the massive scale of the Hoover Dam, the Golden Gate Bridge, or the Statue of Liberty rivals natural wonders and creates awe through physical grandeur—an impossible feat for a small box camera. Instead, the Brownie's enchantment comes from its control over temporality, a theme I address below. 18. For a discussion of photography's relation to the supernatural, see Nancy Martha West, "Camera Fiends: Early Photography, Death, and the Supernatural," Centennial Review 40 (1996): 170-206.

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ter licensing. For his own profit, Cox consented to the use of his Brownies in advertisements for at least forty products. Beyond that already large number of authorized endorsements, Brownie look-alikes proliferated in the mass media without Cox's copyright though with no negative legal repercussions, given that Cox could not lay claim to the folk Brownie but only to his own characters. Although the licensed and unlicensed use of the Brownies in advertising has not been tallied, the number would likely invite comparisons between Palmer Cox and Walt Disney. 20

By 1900, Cox had published seven Brownie books, and the Brownies had endorsed products for nearly seventeen years. Given that degree of media saturation, Eastman's (unauthorized) use of the Brownies to introduce the first one-dollar camera hardly suggests innovative marketing. Nevertheless, Eastman exploited the characters to a degree unrivaled by his contemporaries; while Proctor and Gamble can claim the earliest commercial use of the Brownies, no company employed the sprites with as much impact and meaning as did Eastman Kodak Unlike Ivory Soap and dozens of other Brownie-endorsed products, Eastman's "Brownie" camera adopted not only the Brownies' image, but also their name and characteristics. From his first use of the Brownie in 1900, Eastman increasingly took control of Palmer Cox's characters. The camera and the Brownie soon became so inextricably linked that Cox himself adopted photography as part of the Brownies' world. 21

The Kodak Brownie The first announcement of the Brownie camera in a Kodak trade circular describes the newcomer as "a good, honest little camera that will delight the heart of any boy or girl." Nothing in the appearance of the camera, which was made of jute board reinforced with wood and covered in imitation black leather, inspires awe or a sense of mystery. The Brownie's clothing, so to speak, is in the camera's cardboard packaging and printed advertisements, both of which make liberal use of Palmer Cox-style drawings. The socialization of the Brownie occurs with the help of a hard-hitting advertising campaign, for which the plan of attack is given to retailers in an article titled "Ammunition": "The campaign is about to open. The season 22

19. See Wayne Morgan, "Cox on the Box: Palmer Cox and the Brownies: The First Licensed Characters, the First Licensed Games," Game Researchers' Notes 2 (1996): 553337. Morgan focuses on the many Brownie games (both licensed and unlicensed), including blocks, puzzles, ninepins, marble games, toy artillery, rubber stamps, and ring toss. 20. Cummings (n. 9 above), 101. 21. Like the Eastman House librarians and curators, 1 have been unable to document the initial decision to use Cox's Brownie in Kodak advertising from Eastman's personal records and correspondence. 22. Kodak trade circular, no. 3 (February 1900), 1.

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L & s t m a n

K o d a K

Co.'s

BROWNIE, CAMERAS JANUARY 2007 VOL. 4 8

•Make pictures a# x Inches. Load In Daylight with our six exposure film cartridges and are so simple they can be easily Operated by Any School Boy or Girl. Fitted with fine Meniscus lenses and our Improved rotary shutters for snap shots or time exposures. Strongly made, covered with imitation leather, have nickeled fittings and produce the best results. B r . w . 1 , C u w r * , for 2« x »K » W t e r « , . . - 11.09 JrwiiMtwt.Hl«CmrtrMg»,tt p » 2J<x*K, • .« BrenleDeTelopbiiadPrUUagOsUV • • .11 At* your dialer or mite us for a Brmmie Camera Club OmitMuttm. fsoOM in Kodak frins to tht memters. M

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23

for aggressive work is at hand." Long-range "magazine guns" will assault consumers with full-page ads, and catalogs will be used for "effective closerange work." A separate article on the Brownie proposes that "[e]very school boy and girl in the land ought to have a Brownie before the vacation season begins." Finally, in June, full-page Brownie advertisements appear in the most popular ten-cent magazines, including Sr. Nicholas, the first h o m e of Palmer Cox's Brownies. A typical ad depicts tiny Brownies crawling on the camera, walking around the camera, and peering into the lens (fig. 2). The sprites help give life and movement to the otherwise dull black 24

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23. Kodak trade circular, no. 5 (April 1900). 2. 24. Ibid., 3. 25. Ibid., 6.

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FIG. 3 Brownie Number 1 camera and box, 1901. (Courtesy of t h e George Eastman House, Rochester, N.Y.) box; they create a kinship, as if t h e device were a n e w i n d u c t e e to t h e Brownie b a n d . T h e packaging of the camera, with its colorful images of a cheerful Brownie using a Brownie camera, envisions t h e snapshot photographer as a would-be folkloric character (fig. 3). As such, the Brownie-toting Brownie signals a move from verbal to visual preservation of memory. Inseparable from its technological double, the sprite personifies t h e transfer of oral tradition to what Scott McQuire, in his work on t h e social effects of the camera, calls the " m e m o r y machines" of industrial culture. McQuire notes that although the traditions of oral culture did n o t die during the nineteenth century, social and cultural practices shifted t h e b u r d e n of m e m o r y to mechanized forms: "Increasingly, the story's function as a memory-text was transferred to the newspaper, t h e novel and the film.'' Although a product of industry, the Brownie camera maintains an anachronistic allegiance to folk culture, as if the i m p e t u s to create t h e device h a d c o m e from the Brownies themselves. But as a " m e m o r y machine," t h e Brownie was allied m u c h m o r e with oral history t h a n with the printed word. The new Brownie figure asserts an equivalence between snapshot culture a n d preindustrial traditions of storytelling. To cultivate t h e camera's identity, Kodak b e g a n s h i p p i n g "Brownie Books" as early as 1901. The Kodak trade circular called the books "the best Brownie advertisement that has yet been p u t o u t . " The first booklet contained w i n n i n g pictures from a nationwide p h o t o competition. The second, 26

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26. Scott McQuire, Visions of Modernity: Representation, Memory, Time, and Space in the Age of the Camera (London, 1998), 121. 27. Ibid., 120. 28. Kodak trade circular (February 1901), 3.

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TECHNOLOGY AND CULTURE with the slightly altered tide "The Book of the Brownies," begins with "The Brownie's Story of the Brownie." The tale places the camera's origins in the world of the Brownies and reads: Once upon a time the Queen of the Fairies summoned the Chief of all the Brownies to her presence. "Good Brownie," said she, "for many years you have served me faithfully and well, and I now grant you one request—your heart's desire." Bowing low the Brownie pondered but a moment and then replied: "Give to me that which will bring back pleasures past and double pleasures present—that I may bestow it upon my earthly friends, the children." Waving once her magic wand, the Fairy Queen placed in the waiting Brownie's hands a box.

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"Speed you back to earth again, and in a city near the great inland seas, you will find a man having power over light and darkness. Give to him this box, that he may reproduce it for the benefit of your children friends—all you ask for, and more, the box contains." With box secure in his tiny arms the Brownie vanished and by means known to Brownies soon placed the box in the hands of the man by the inland seas. As all good children know, mortals must heed the behest of the Fairy Queen, and so the magical box was reproduced again and again and scattered over the wide world wherever Brownie bands were found, to whisper in waiting ears the secret of the pleasures in the litde black box. This is the Brownie's Story of the Brownie—the litde camera that has afforded pleasure and education to thousands of children and grown-ups the world over. 29

Rather than masking the corporate side of production, the tale establishes a magical provenance for the camera, helping to link Eastman Kodak to a fairytale world. The tale transforms Eastman ("the man by the inland seas") into a demiurgic master of light and darkness, a man with power to reproduce the "magical box" for all the children of the world. The camera's origin is shown to be the result of a special collaboration: engineering courtesy of the Fairy Queen, and mass reproduction courtesy of George Eastman. Thanks to that collaboration, the mechanisms of mass fabrication and distribution gain an aura of enchantment. At "the behest of the Fairy Queen," Eastman's business is the proliferation of otherworldly technology. Among the attributes of the Brownie camera, the one most central to "The Brownie's Story of the Brownie" is its power over time. Thanks to the Brownie's thoughtful wish, human beings receive a means of controlling the past and adding joy to the present. The temporality of the Brownie camera is that of the fairies—an eternal present. As poet and cultural critic

29. Eastman Kodak Company, "The Book of the Brownies" (1902), 1-2.

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OLIVIER I Snapshot Photography and the Brownie Susan Stewart remarks in her well-known study, On Longing, "[w]hile the gigantic takes up time and space in history, the fairy lives in a continual present Fairy rulers are often described as simultaneously ancient and ageless." Similarly, the Brownie camera renders its object as both eternally present and suddenly ancient, generating nostalgia for the present. Photographs become what Nancy Martha West calls "instant antiques, objects that condense to nothingness the increasingly small amount of time required to make something old into something cherished." The "instant antique" phenomenon fulfills the Brownie's proposed doubling of "pleasures present," as it transforms everyday experiences into valuable relics. Through photography, the past reenters the present, and the present becomes a treasured past—human time commingles with that of the fairies. 30

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Corollary to the commingling of human and fairy time is the introduction of modern society's amnesia into the realm of fantasy (read also, childhood). Palmer Cox's imitative response to Eastman's campaign exemplifies the problem. Not long after the appearance of Eastman Kodak's Brownie, Cox added his own Brownie with a box camera to the Brownie band. In books appearing prior to the popularization of the dollar camera, the Brownies travel the world without ever taking a photo. Suddenly, in The Brownies in the Philippines (1904), nearly every page includes a snap-happy Brownie (fig. 4). The appearance of this new figure in Cox's work both indicates and spreads a growing anxiety about the undocumented life. Sprites once content with a quiet and invisible domesticity learn to seek photographic proof of their expeditions. Similarly, potential consumers, especially women and children, learn that their own previously invisible lives need mediatized expression. Eastman's "intended consumers were not professional photographers," remarks Marianne Hirsch, "but people w h o had seen photographs but had not thought of actually taking them any more than they might have considered painting pictures, writing novels, or composing music." Hirsch's comparison reminds us that cultural practices and attitudes could have led many people to self-exclude from photographic expression—no matter how affordable—were it not for Eastman's aggressive Brownie campaign. 32

Snapshot Print Culture As a technology that democratizes the author's voice, photography promises to transcend the achievements of print culture. In both subtle and direct ways, Eastman makes snapshot photography a higher form of self-

30. Susan Stewart, On Longing: Narratives of the Miniature, the Gigantic the Souvenir, the Collection (Baltimore, 1984), 113. 31. West, Kodak and the Lens of Nostalgia (n. 3 above), 16 (emphasis in original). 32. M. Hirsch (n. 6 above), 6.

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FIG. 4 Brownie with camera. (From Palmer Cox, The Brownies in the Philippines [New York, 1904], 13.)

expression than the written word. In the images of a girl photographing a Brownie (fig. 5), for example, the use of books as a prop for the camera serves a dual purpose: the first, merely functional; the second, symbolic. The box sits on a pedestal of books ostensibly to reach a height suitable for taking the Brownies portrait, yet the resulting image also confirms symbolically the cliche that a picture is worth a thousand words. The camera's placement asserts the Brownie's authority and status as equal, if not superior, to books. This reordering of hierarchies is echoed by Eastman in a humorous letter to a friend. Adopting a prophetic tone, Eastman foretells the day when Kodak representatives will carry the good word into the utmost regions of the earth; yea, into even the Sunday Schools and Kindergartens, until it shall finally come to pass that children will be taught to develop before they learn to walk, and grown-up people—instead of trying word painting—will merely hand out a photograph and language will become obsolete. 33

33. Collins (n. 3 above), 99.

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fig. 5 Girl with Brownie camera and Brownie figure. (From Eastman Kodak Company, Kodak trade circular [April 1902], 2. Courtesy of the George Eastman House, Rochester, N.Y.)

While exaggerated in the letter for the sake of a laugh, Eastman's Utopian replacement of written narrative (or "word painting") with photographs appears in only slightly more subtie forms in his official publications. An article in a 1900 circular gives photography a context within the history of communication that reduces the printing press to yet another step toward photographic expression: "Away back yonder, in the dawn of civilization, our ancestors had no way of recording thoughts and events, but after a time a system of writing was formulated..." begins the story. Next, the sweeping narrative advances to the advent of the printing press before continuing in a manner that places photography on a higher point of the evolutionary scale: "Now photography is a means of recording thoughts, actions and events, as well as an a r t " This new timeline of progress alters the relationship between picture and printed word from the more standard account that would make the printing press the fulfillment of cave painting. In Kodak's history, photography—and not writing—becomes the ultimate end of our primitive instincts. As an article in a 1915 Kodak trade circular stated, "[t]he impulse to Kodak goes back to the stone age [sic]—the means 34

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34. Kodak trade circular (n. 23 above), 6. 35.Ibid.

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is less than thirty years old." Kodak makes the production of images a purer form of narrative, akin to the spoken tales and records of lost cultures. The act of picture-making offers both a connection to primeval desires and a return to childhood innocence. In that regard, the nostalgia of photography stems not only from the preservation of childhood and the antiquing of the quotidian, but from ties to prehistory—primitivism through technology. Eastman's narrative simultaneously validates photography as an evolved art form and a rediscovery of primitive desires. In an era of flux and transformation, Eastman grafts ancient roots onto the turn-of-the-century family. The perceived continuity between ancient desire and modern technology counteracts the destabilizing force of innovation and invites potential consumers to discover their inherent longing to photograph. Rather than a hobby handed down to the masses by the leisure class, photography becomes a universal language, one that recalls the cave paintings of Lascaux more than the oil paintings of the Louvre. In a testament to the appeal of Stone Age imagery, Edward Steichen described "The Family of Man," his 1955 blockbuster exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City, in terms similar to those employed in the Kodak trade circular forty years before: "Long before the birth of a word language the caveman communicated by visual images. The invention of photography gave visual communication its most simple, direct, universal language" In Steichen's declaration as in Eastman's, the representation of photography as a universal language trumps (but does not exclude) artistic expression. Steichen's exhibition, which toured the world for eight years and featured more than five hundred photographs of families around the world grouped by such universal themes as children and love, also promoted photography as a tool for neutralizing cultural differences. In that, we witness the link between the caveman (universal symbol of shared primitive roots) and the Brownies (spokescreatures for democracy and globalized fraternity through technological consumption and self-representation). Steichen's "The Family of Man" is commonly interpreted as a postwar search for commonalities among disparate cultures, but the Brownie's impact on the formative years of snapshot photography suggests a public already conditioned to equate photography with bands of united folk from all walks of life (modern and primitive). The Brownie boys and girls of the 1900s had 37

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36. Kodak trade circular, vol. 16, no. 12 (November 1915), 14. Kodak ads were still using the same language as late as 1989: "150 years ago a language was invented that everyone understood," quoted in M. Hirsch, 48. 37. Quoted in M. Hirsch (n. 6 above), 49. For a discussion of both photography and motion pictures as hieroglyphics, see Michael North, Camera Works: Photography and the Twentieth-Century Word (Oxford, 2005), 35-60. 38. The Museum of Modern Art's own web site calls the exhibition "an expression of humanism in the decade following World War II": http://www.moma.org/research/ archives/highlights/06_1955.html (accessed 5 July 2005). 14

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OLIVIER I Snapshot Photography and the Brownie become the adult public willing to embrace photographs as the medium best-suited to express that message. Of all the products to use Brownies in advertising, only the Brownie camera conflated Brownie, product, and consumer. Eastman not only essentially added a new member to the Brownie band with his snapshot photographer, he added hundreds of thousands of boys and girls to the throng. Just as the public was meant to identify the camera with the character in a happy confluence of values, powers, and traits, so also was the user of the camera meant to become a Brownie boy or girl. With that goal in mind, Eastman Kodak created the "Brownie Camera Club of America," complete with its own constitution. The essential prerequisites for m e m bership, as stated in Article III of the club's constitution, were that the child be a resident of the United States or Canada under 16 years of age, and that he or she own a Brownie camera. The lineage of the humble club can be traced to the many serious amateur photographic societies that flourished in the 1880s and 1890s—societies often modeled on the European tradition of art academies. As a "Brownie" club, however, the organization also identified with the mystique of preliterate oral traditions and nomadic bands of sprites. The charter member of the club, a 13-year-old boy, joined on 22 April 1900. Like many who would follow, the boy gained a new identity, one with ties to both industry and folk culture. The Brownie Camera Club made children members of the Brownies through ownership of what was fundamentally marketed as a corporate product born of folk technology. Club literature, photo competitions and exhibitions, and advertisements in children's magazines helped create a sense of community among America's first generation of snapshot photographers. While all clearly in the interest of the company's profits, photos published by Eastman Kodak of or by real-life Brownie boys and girls are nonetheless important for their role in helping children express themselves as members of a community. 39

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Advertisements urged, "Let the kiddies tell their story with a BROWNIE," and "Even in their kindergarten days, the youngsters can make good pictures with a BROWNIE." The texts convey a pleading tone, as if exclusion from the fellowship of the Brownies constitutes a deprivation of basic childhood rights. Another slogan, used for years, rings like an emancipatory rallying cry, beseeching adults everywhere to "Let the Children Kodak!" At a time when children were to be seen and not heard, the Brownie introduced them to a potent, if mute, form of self-expression. In a parallel campaign, w o m e n were encouraged to tell their stories from their own 41

39. See Sternberger (n. 4 above) for a discussion of late-nineteenth-century photographic societies and clubs. 40. Kodak trade circular, no. 6 (May 1900), 4. 41. Kodak trade circular (n. 36 above), 5 (emphasis in original); Kodak trade circular, vol. 20, no. 7 (June 1916), 5. 15

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point of view with a Kodak. In both campaigns, groups typically excluded from the production of i d e o l o g y — w o m e n and children—are given an alternate form of expression in which to order and express their own worldview. Although lacking in traditional power, users ostensibly gain visual control over their surroundings and are able to make their outiook concrete and valuable through photographs. According to Jack Zipes, the content of their photos, while influenced to some degree by advertisements, does not emanate solely from a corporation disguised as its audience, as is ^ o, television, and motion pictures. This is not to say that corporate interests do not invade the life of the camera's user (which, Eastman hopes, will be revisited as a series of "Kodak moments"), but certain narrative decisions rest in the hands that press the buttons. In other words, the Brownie enthusiast is promised authorial status, however mediated the production of his or her story. "We have yet to explore sufficientiy the ways in which the technologies of the mass media were able to foster and not just weaken or destroy a sense of community," writes Lawrence Levine. In the case of the Brownie, as in any study of mass-marketed technology, the reading that underscores the insidious forces of corporate culture comes easily. Either because we have grown accustomed to hearing about it, or because it is always there, the destructive side of technological innovation attracts attention. But in each case, as Zipes observes, both positive and negative purposes accompany the advancement of mass media. On the negative side, the Brownie club aims to create a nation of prepubescent consumers-—junkies hooked on a brand before they learn to tie their shoes. "Plant the Brownie acorn and the Kodak oak will grow," boasts the Kodak trade circular. Further, one can argue that the Brownie's most sinister accomplishment is to commodity childhood. By creating and feeding a perception that an always-receding childhood can be preserved only through film, does Kodak double pleasure or anxiety? Pause and draw a line connecting the promotion of snapshot photography to this familiar scene: parents at a school pageant, nearly all viewing the spectacle through the lens of a camcorder or camera, sacrificing their firsthand enjoyment for the sake of the archive. Is this the enchanted legacy of the Brownie? Add pornography and invasion of privacy to its offenses, and the black box now seems more like Pandora's than the e

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42. Zipes (n. 8 above), 20-21. He adds (p. 20) that "It was the radio, then movies, and ultimately TV which were able to draw together large groups of people as the original folk-tale narrators did and to relate tales as though they were derived from the point of view of the people themselves" and pronounces the result of mass-mediated fairy tales "a happy reaffirmation of the system which produces them" (p. 21). 43. Lawrence W. Levine, "The Folklore of Industrial Society: Popular Culture and Its Audiences," American Historical Review 97 (1992): 1393. 44. Zipes, 19. 45. Kodak trade circular (n. 40 above), 1.

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OLIVIER I Snapshot Photography and the Brownie gift of a Fairy Queen. Nevertheless, to vilify Eastman Kodak as a "soulless corporation" oversimplifies the problem, as does the glorification of Eastman as a great emancipator of oppressed w o m e n and children. The complex nature of Eastman's project is perhaps best manifested in Kodak's fairy tale of the Brownie. Like the "You press the button, we do the rest" campaign that preceded it, the Brownie tale teaches that photographic selfexpression, however magical, must pass through the industrial complexes headed by a technologically skilled "man by the inland seas." Consumerbased narrative decisions notwithstanding, the owner of a Brownie mimics the collaborative process seen in "The Brownie's Story of the Brownie." As advertisements began to label children as "Brownie" boys and girls, the Brownie characters appeared less frequently. In the images of children photographing Brownies, the camera is used as a transition between the child and the folkloric figure, suggesting an affinity between childhood and enchantment, both of which are made accessible to adults through the camera. A 1 9 0 9 circular identifies the product line and a lineup of children as "The Brownie Family" (fig. 6 ) . Another popular series of advertisements that began as early as 1903 uses images of a (human) "Brownie boy" carrying a fishing pole and a camera. The Palmer Cox Brownies were sufficiently well-known that the reference to Brownies was clear, with or without images of the creatures. The characterization of children as Brownies reveals the camera's power to seize the ephemeral, fleeting nature of childhood in action—a feat no less marvelous to the adult consumer than the idea of capturing an invisible sprite on film. 46

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Conclusion In May 1914, Eastman Kodak announced the discontinuation of the "Brownie Book." Brownie advertising did not stop, but the cameras were marketed more directly to adults. A 1 9 0 9 circular acknowledged that it took some time for the Eastman Kodak Company to realize "that grown-up people were making pictures with the No. 1 Brownie." In response to that realization, the advertising began to change. The expanded line of Brownie cameras enjoyed more direct association with the parent brand in trade literature that began to refer to them as "Little Cousins of the Kodaks." The consolidation of catalogs into one "Kodak Summer Book" in 1914 led to 50

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46. John Bull Jr., quoted in Sternberger (n. 4 above), 116. 47. Eastman Kodak Company, "The Book of the Brownies" (n. 29 above), 1. 48. Kodak trade circular (1909), 7. 49. An example can be seen in the June 1903 Kodak trade circular. 50. Kodak trade circular (1914), 3. 51. Kodak trade circular (1909), 1. 52. Ibid.

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KODAK FRADE CIRCULAR.

T H E BROWNIE FAMILY. Baby is the subject, and finds the posing fun. Harry is the expert with Brownie No. I. Susie is the artist ot Brownie No. 2 ; She says "there's really nothing, the little box can't do"! Jane is at the shutter of Brownie No. 3 : Johnnie chose a Folding one, as all of you may see. Mary likes her pictures in the "postal" size, Thomas loves the "stereo"—note its eager eyes. With our "Special Artists" always on the spot, We're sure of knowing who is who, as well as what is what. The prints we put in albums, each one neatly dated— The Brownie Family History is "fully illustrated." — Titdor /cuts. SOME ADVERTISERS LIKE RHYMES. IF YOU DO. HERE'S A GOOD ONE. THE CUT IS NO. 290, AND IS YOURS FOR THE ASKING.

FIG. 6 Advertisement and poem, "The Brownie Family." (From Eastman Kodak Company, Kodak trade circular [1909]. Courtesy of the George Eastman House, Rochester, N.Y.)

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OLIVIER I Snapshot Photography and the Brownie the adoption of a tone aimed at adult consumers. During World War I, the Brownie was sometimes cast in the role of Nanny ("You don't have to provide amusement for the children—Just leave it to the BROWNIE"), but the idea of capturing childhood ("Pictures of the children by the children have the charm of childhood itself") remained central to most campaigns. More than a century after the introduction of the Brownie, the magical tale of its origins has nearly disappeared. The story of a Brownie's goodwill toward children, of a Fairy Queen's engineering, and of Eastman's magical mass production no longer inform the concept of photography in the minds of adults or children. The idea of "Brownie boys and girls" n o w evokes cookie sales rather than snapshots and camera clubs. The sprites have returned to invisibility, replaced by efficient Kodak technicians. Versions of "Brownie" cameras continued to be manufactured into the 1950s, but as Palmer Cox's Brownies lost their popularity and faded from public memory, so too did the association of the camera with its namesake. Nevertheless, the Brownie ghost in the machine merits attention for its impact on a foundational period in the conception of snapshot photography By the time the folkloric Brownies had faded from memory, millions of consumers had learned to identify themselves and photography with the traits of the Brownie band. By popularizing snapshot photography as a valuable language in its own right, as a voice of the people in an increasingly mediatized society, Eastman broke the oral/print binary. The snapshot possesses not only the immediacy, transparency, and purity of enunciation associated with oral expression, but also the tangible and archival qualities of the printed document—an enchanted middle ground where the primitive and the modern coexist 53

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53. Kodak trade circular (April 1915), 16 (emphasis in original); Kodak trade circular (June 1916), 5. 54. Beginning Girl Guides (Girl Scouts in the United States) were called "Brownies" until 1985, when Daisy Scouts became the beginner scouting organization for kindergarten girls. The organization was founded in 1909 in England, and in 1912 in the United States. References to the world of fairies abound in the early Brownie organization, including elf and gnome emblems, membership pins representing a sprite figure, and "pixie" caps. A sampling of uniforms is available online at http://www.vintagegirlscout.com/unibr.htm (accessed 10 November 2005).

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As m a n p r o c e e d s toward his announced goal of the conquest of nature,, he has written a depressing record of destruction, directed not only against the earth he inhabits but against the life that shares it with him. The history of the recent centuries has its black passages — the slaughter of the buffalo on the western plains, the massacre of the shorebirds by the market gunners, the near-extermination of the egrets for their plumage. Now, to these and others like them, we are adding a new chapter and a new kind of havoc — the direct killing of birds, mammals, fishes, and indeed practically every form of wildlife by chemical insecticides indiscriminately sprayed on the land. Under the philosophy that now seems to guide our destinies, nothing must get in the way of the man with the spray gun. The incidental victims of his crusade against insects count as nothing; if robins, pheasants, raccoons, cats, or even livestock happen to inhabit the same bit of earth as the target insects and

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to be hit by the rain of insect-killing poisons no one must protest. The citizen who wishes to make a fair judgment of the question of wildlife loss is today confronted with a dilemma. On the one hand conservationists and many wildlife biologists assert that the losses have been severe and in some cases even catastrophic. On the other hand the control agencies tend to deny flatly and categorically that such losses have occurred, or that they are of any importance if they have. Which view are we to accept? The credibility of the witness is of first importance. The professional wildlife biologist on the scene is certainly best qualified to discover and interpret wildlife loss. The entomologist, whose specialty is insects, is not so qualified by training, and is not psychologically disposed to look for undesirable side effects of his control program. Yet it is the control men in state and federal governments — and of course the chemical manufacturers — who steadfastly deny the facts reported by the biologists and declare they see little evidence of harm to wildlife. Like the priest and the Levite in the biblical story, they choose to pass by on the other side and to see nothing. Even if we charitably explain their denials as due to the shortsightedness of the specialist and the man with an interest this does not mean we must accept them as qualified witnesses. The best way to form our own judgment is to look at some of the major control programs and learn, from observers familiar with the ways of wildlife, and unbiased in favor of chemicals, just what has happened in the wake of a rain of poison falling from the skies into the world of wildlife. To the bird watcher, the suburbanite who derives joy from birds in his garden, the hunter, the fisherman or the explorer of wild regions, anything that destroys the wildlife of an area for even a single year has deprived him of pleasure to which he has a legitimate right. This is a valid point of view. Even if, as has sometimes happened, some of the birds and mammals and fishes

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: are able to re-establish themselves after a single spraying, a great and real harm has been done. ? But such re-establishment is unlikely to happen. Spraying (tends to be repetitive, and a single exposure from which the wildlife populations might have a chance to recover is a rarity. What usually results is a poisoned environment, a lethal trap in ; which not only the resident populations succumb but those who I come in as migrants as well. The larger the area sprayed the I more serious the harm, because no oases of safety remain. Now, in a decade marked by insect-control programs in which many thousands or even millions of acres are sprayed as a unit, a decade in which private and community spraying has also surged steadily upward, a record of destruction and death of American wildlife has accumulated. Let us look at some of these : programs and see what has happened. ;

During the fall of 1959 some 27,000 acres in southeastern Michigan, including numerous suburbs of Detroit, were heavily : dusted from the air with pellets of aldrin, one of the most dangerous of all the chlorinated hydrocarbons. T h e program was conducted by the Michigan Department of Agriculture with the cooperation of the United States Department of Agriculture; its announced purpose was control of the Japanese beetle. Little need was shown for this drastic and dangerous action. On the contrary, Walter P. Nickell, one of the best-known and best-informed naturalists in the state, who spends much of his time in the field with long periods in southern Michigan every : summer, declared: "For more than thirty years, to my direct /knowledge, the Japanese beetle has been present in the city of Detroit in small numbers. The numbers have not shown any appreciable increase in all this lapse of years. I have yet to see a single Japanese beetle [in 1959] other than the few caught in Government catch traps in D e t r o i t . . . Everything is being kept ; so secret that I have not yet been able to obtain any information whatsoever to the effect that they have increased in numbers."

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An official release by the state agency merely declared that the beetle had "put in its appearance" in the areas designated for the aerial attack upon it. Despite the lack of justification the program was launched, with the state providing the manpower and supervising the operation, the federal government providing equipment and additional men, and the communities paying for the insecticide. The Japanese beetle, an insect accidentally imported into the United States, was discovered in N e w Jersey in 1916, when a few shiny beetles of a metallic green color were seen in a nursery near Riverton. The beetles, at first unrecognized, were finally identified as a common inhabitant of the main islands of Japan. Apparently they had entered the United States on nursery stock imported before restrictions were established in

1912. From its original point of entrance the Japanese beetle has spread rather widely throughout many of the states east of the Mississippi, where conditions of temperature and rainfall are suitable for it. Each year some outward movement beyond the existing boundaries of its distribution usually takes place. In the eastern areas where the beetles have been longest established, attempts have been made to set up natural controls. Where this has been done, the beetle populations have been kept at relatively low levels, as many records attest. Despite the record of reasonable control in eastern areas, the midwestern states now on the fringe of the beetle's range have launched an attack worthy of the most deadly enemy instead of only a moderately destructive insect, employing the most dangerous chemicals distributed in a manner that exposes large numbers of people, their domestic animals, and all wildlife to the poison intended for the beetle. As a result these Japanese beetle programs have caused shocking destruction of animal life? and have exposed human beings to undeniable hazard. Sections of Michigan, Kentucky, Iowa, Indiana, Illinois, and Missouri ;

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are all experiencing a rain of chemicals in the name of beetle control. T h e Michigan spraying was one of the first large-scale attacks on the Japanese beetle from the air. The choice of aldrin, one of the deadliest of all chemicals, was not determined by any peculiar suitability for Japanese beetle control, but simply by the wish to save money — aldrin was the cheapest of the compounds available. While the state in its official release to the press acknowledged that aldrin is a "poison," it implied that no harm could come to human beings in the heavily populated areas to which the chemical was applied. (The official answer to the query "What precautions should I take?" was "For you, none.") An official of the Federal Aviation Agency was later quoted in the local press to the effect that "this is a safe operation" and a representative of the Detroit Department of Parks and Recreation added his assurance that "the dust is harmless to humans and will not hurt plants or pets." One must assume that none of these officials had consulted the published and readily available reports of the United States Public Health Service, the Fish and Wildlife Service, and other evidence of the extremely poisonous nature of aldrin. Acting under the Michigan pest control law which allows the state to spray indiscriminately without notifying or gaining permission of individual landowners, the low-lying planes began to fly over the Detroit area. T h e city authorities and the Federal Aviation Agency were immediately besieged by calls from worried citizens. After receiving nearly 800 calls in a single hour, the police begged radio and television stations and newspapers to "tell the watchers what they were seeing and advise them it was safe," according to the Detroit News. The Federal Aviation Agency's safety officer assured the public that "the planes are carefully supervised" and "are authorized to fly low." In a somewhat mistaken attempt to allay fears, he added that the planes had emergency valves that would allow them to dump

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their entire load instantaneously. This, fortunately, was not done, but as the planes went about their work the pellets of insecticide fell on beetles and humans alike, showers of "harmless" poison descending on people shopping or going to work and on children out from school for the lunch hour. Housewives swept the granules from porches and sidewalks, where they are said to have "looked like snow." As pointed out later by the Michigan Audubon Society, "In the spaces between shingles on roofs, in eaves-troughs, in the cracks in bark and twigs, the little white pellets of aldrin-and-clay, no bigger than a pin head, were lodged by the millions . . . When the snow and rain came, every puddle became a possible death potion." Within a few days after the dusting operation, the Detroit Audubon Society began receiving calls about the birds. According to the Society's secretary, Mrs. Ann Boyes, "The first indication that the people were concerned about the spray was a call I received on Sunday morning from a woman who reported that coming home from church she saw an alarming number of dead and dying birds. The spraying there had been done on Thursday. She said there were no birds at all flying in the area, that she had found at least a dozen [dead] in her backyard and that the neighbors had found dead squirrels." All other calls received by Mrs. Boyes that day reported "a great many dead birds and no live ones . . . People who had maintained bird feeders said there were no birds at all at their feeders." Birds picked up in a dying condition showed the typical symptoms of insecticide poisoning — tremoring, loss of ability to fly, paralysis, convulsions. N o r were birds the only forms of life immediately affected. A local veterinarian reported that his office was full of clients with dogs and cats that had suddenly sickened. Cats, who so meticulously groom their coats and lick their paws, seemed to be most affected. Their illness took the form of severe diarrhea, vomiting, and convulsions. The only advice the veterinarian

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could give his clients was not to let the animals out unnecessarily, or to wash the paws promptly if they did so. (But the chlorinated hydrocarbons cannot be washed even from fruits or vegetables, so little protection could be expected from this measure.) Despite the insistence of the City-County Health Commissioner that the birds must have been killed by "some other kind of spraying" and that the outbreak of throat and chest irritations that followed the exposure to aldrin must have been due to "something else," the local Health Department received a constant stream of complaints. A prominent Detroit internist was called upon to treat four of his patients within an hour after they had been exposed while watching the planes at work. All had similar symptoms: nausea, vomiting, chills, fever, extreme fatigue, and coughing. The Detroit experience has been repeated in many other communities as pressure has mounted to combat the Japanese beetle with chemicals. At Blue Island, Illinois, hundreds of dead and dying birds were picked up. Data collected by birdbanders here suggest that 80 per cent of the songbirds were sacrificed. In Joliet, Illinois, some 3000 acres were treated with heptachlor in 1959. According to reports from a local sportsmen's club, the bird population within the treated area was "virtually wiped out." Dead rabbits, muskrats, opossums, and fish were also found in numbers, and one of the local schools made the collection of insecticide-poisoned birds a science project. Perhaps no community has suffered more for the sake of a beetleless world than Sheldon, in eastern Illinois, and adjacent areas in Iroquois County. In 1954 the United States Department of Agriculture and the Illinois Agriculture Department began a program to eradicate the Japanese beetle along the line of its advance into Illinois, holding out the hope, and indeed the assurance, that intensive spraying would destroy the populations

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of the invading insect. The first "eradication" took place that year, when dieldrin was applied to 1400 acres by air. Another 2600 acres were treated similarly in 1955, and the task was presumably considered complete. But more and more chemical treatments were called for, and by the end of 1961 some 131,000 acres had been covered. Even in the first years of the program it was apparent that heavy losses were occurring among wildlife and domestic animals. T h e chemical treatments were continued, nevertheless, without consultation with either the United States Fish and Wildlife Service or the Illinois Game Management Division. (In the spring of i960, however, officials of the federal Department of Agriculture appeared before a congressional committee in opposition to a bill that would require just such prior consultation. They declared blandly that the bill was unnecessary because cooperation and consultation were "usual." These officials were quite unable to recall situations where cooperation had not taken place "at the Washington level." In the same hearings they stated clearly their unwillingness to consult with state fish and game departments.) Although funds for chemical control came in never-ending streams, the biologists of the Illinois Natural History Survey who attempted to measure the damage to wildlife had to operate on a financial shoestring. A mere $1100 was available for the employment of a field assistant in 1954 and no special funds were provided in 1955. Despite these crippling difficulties, the biologists assembled facts that collectively paint a picture of almost unparalleled wildlife destruction — destruction that became obvious as soon as the program got under way. Conditions were made to order for poisoning insect-eating birds, both in the poisons used and in the events set in motion by their application. In the early programs at Sheldon, dieldrin was applied at the rate of 3 pounds to the acre. To understand its effect on birds one need only remember that in laboratory experiments on quail dieldrin has proved to be about 50 times

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as poisonous as D D T . T h e poison spread over the landscape at Sheldon was therefore roughly equivalent to 150 pounds of D D T per acre! And this was a minimum, because there seems to have been some overlapping of treatments along field borders and in corners. As the chemical penetrated the soil the poisoned beetle grubs crawled out on the surface of the ground, where they remained for some time before they died, attractive to insect-eating birds. Dead and dying insects of various species were conspicuous for about two weeks after the treatment. The effect on the bird populations could easily have been foretold. Brown thrashers, starlings, meadowlarks, grackles, and pheasants were virtually wiped out. Robins were "almost annihilated," according to the biologists' report. Dead earthworms had been seen in numbers after a gentle rain; probably the robins had fed on the poisoned worms. For other birds, too, the once beneficial rain had been changed, through the evil power of the poison introduced into their world, into an agent of destruction. Birds seen drinking and bathing in puddles left by rain a few days after the spraying were inevitably doomed. The birds that survived may have been rendered sterile. Although a few nests were found in the treated area, a few with eggs, none contained young birds. Among the mammals ground squirrels were virtually annihilated; their bodies were found in attitudes characteristic of violent death by poisoning. Dead muskrats were found in the treated areas, dead rabbits in the fields. The fox squirrel had been a relatively common animal in the town; after the spraying it was gone. It was a rare farm in the Sheldon area that was blessed by the presence of a cat after the war on beetles was begun. Ninety per cent of all the farm cats fell victims to the dieldrin during the first season of spraying. This might have been predicted because of the black record of these poisons in other places. Cats

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are extremely sensitive to all insecticides and especially so, it seems, to dieldrin. In western Java in the course of the antimalarial program carried out by the World Health Organization, many cats are reported to have died. In central Java so many were killed that the price of a cat more than doubled. Similarly, the World Health Organization, spraying in Venezuela, is reported to have reduced cats to the status of a rare animal. In Sheldon it was not only the wild creatures and the domestic companions that were sacrificed in the campaign against an insect. Observations on several flocks of sheep and a herd of beef cattle are indicative of the poisoning and death that threatened livestock as well. The Natural History Survey report describes one of these episodes as follows: The sheep . . . were driven into a small, untreated bluegrass pasture across a gravel road from a field which had been treated with dieldrin spray on May 6. Evidently some spray had drifted across the road into the pasture, for the sheep began to show symptoms of intoxication almost at once . . . They lost interest in food and displayed extreme restlessness, following the pasture fence around and around apparently searching for a way out . . . [They] refused to be driven, bleated almost continuously, and stood with their heads lowered; they were finally carried from the pasture . . . They displayed great desire for water. Two of the sheep were found dead in the stream passing through the pasture, and the remaining sheep were repeatedly driven out of the stream, several having to be dragged forcibly from the water. Three of the sheep eventually died; those remaining recovered to all outward appearances. This, then, was the picture at the end of 1955. Although the chemical war went on in succeeding years, the trickle of research funds dried up completely. Requests for money for wildlifeinsecticide research were included in annual budgets submitted to the Illinois legislature by the Natural History Survey, but

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were invariably among the first items to be eliminated. It was not until i960 that money was somehow found to pay the expenses of one field assistant — to do work that could easily have occupied the time of four men. The desolate picture of wildlife loss had changed little when the biologists resumed the studies broken off in 1955. In the meantime, the chemical had been changed to the even more toxic aldrin, 100 to 300 times as toxic as D D T in tests on quail. By i960, every species of wild mammal known to inhabit the area had suffered losses. It was even worse with the birds. In the small town of Donovan the robins had been wiped out, as had the grackles, starlings, and brown thrashers. These and many other birds were sharply redueed elsewhere. Pheasant hunters felt the effects of the beetle campaign sharply. The number of broods produced on treated lands fell off by some 50 per cent, and the number of young in a brood declined. Pheasant hunting, which had been good in these areas in former years, was virtually abandoned as unrewarding. In spite of the enormous havoc that had been wrought in the name of eradicating the Japanese beetle, the treatment of more than 100,000 acres in Iroquois County over an eight-year period seems to have resulted in only temporary suppression of the insect, which continues its westward movement. The full extent of the toll that has been taken by this largely ineffective program may never be known, for the results measured by the Illinois biologists are a minimum figure. If the research program had been adequately financed to permit full coverage, the destruction revealed would have been even more appalling. But in the eight years of the program, only about $6000 was provided for biological field studies. Meanwhile the federal government had spent about 1 3 7 5 , 0 0 0 for control work and additional thousands had been provided by the state. T h e amount spent for research was therefore a small fraction of 1 per cent of the outlay for the chemical program.

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These midwestern programs have been conducted in a spirit of crisis, as though the advance of the beetle presented an extreme peril justifying any means to combat it. This of course is a distortion of the facts, and if the communities that have endured these chemical drenchings had been familiar with the earlier history of the Japanese beetle in the United States they would surely have been less acquiescent. The eastern states, which had the good fortune to sustain their beetle invasion in the days before the synthetic insecticides had been invented, have not only survived the invasion but have brought the insect under control by means that represented no threat whatever to other forms of life. There has been nothing comparable to the Detroit or Sheldon sprayings in the East. The effective methods there involved the bringing into play of natural forces of control which have the multiple advantages of permanence and environmental safety. During the first dozen years after its entry into the United States, the beetle increased rapidly, free of the restraints that in its native land hold it in check. But by 1945 it had become a pest of only minor importance throughout much of the territory over which it had spread. Its decline was largely a consequence of the importation of parasitic insects from the Far East and of the establishment of disease organisms fatal to it. Between 1920 and 1933, as a result of diligent searching throughout the native range of the beetle, some 34 species of predatory or parasitic insects had been imported from the Orient in an effort to establish natural control. Of these, five became well established in the eastern United States. The most effective and widely distributed is a parasitic wasp from Korea and China, Tiphia vernalis. The female Tiphia, finding a beetle grub in the soil, injects a paralyzing fluid and attaches a single egg to the undersurface of the grub. The young wasp, hatching as a larva, feeds on the paralyzed grub and destroys it. In some 25 years, colonies of Tiphia were introduced into 14 eastern

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states in a cooperative program of state and federal agencies. The wasp became widely established in this area and is generally credited by entomologists with an important role in bringing the beetle under control. An even more important role has been played by a bacterial disease that affects beetles of the family to which the Japanese beetle belongs — the scarabaeids. It is a highly specific organism, attacking no other type of insects, harmless to earthworms, warm-blooded animals, and plants. The spores of the disease occur in soil. W h e n ingested by a foraging beetle grub they multiply prodigiously in its blood, causing it to turn an abnormally white color, hence the popular name, "milky disease." Milky disease was discovered in N e w Jersey in 1933. By 1938 it was rather widely prevalent in the older areas of Japanese beetle infestation. In 1939 a control program was launched, directed at speeding up the spread of the disease. No method had been developed for growing the disease organism in an artificial medium, but a satisfactory substitute was evolved; infected grubs are ground up, dried, and combined with chalk. In the standard mixture a gram of dust contains 100 million spores. Between 1939 and 1953 some 94,000 acres in 14 eastern states were treated in a cooperative federal-state program; other areas on federal lands were treated; and an unknown but extensive area was treated by private organizations or individuals. By 1945, milky spore disease was raging among the beetle populations of Connecticut, N e w York, New Jersey, Delaware, and Maryland. In some test areas infection of grubs had reached as high as 94 per cent. The distribution program was discontinued as a governmental enterprise in 1953 and production was taken over by a private laboratory, which continues to supply individuals, garden clubs, citizens' associations, and all others interested in beetle control. The eastern areas where this program was carried out now enjoy a high degree of natural protection from the beetle. T h e organism remains viable in the soil for years and therefore be-

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comes to all intents and purposes permanently established, increasing in effectiveness, and being continuously spread by natural agencies. Why, then, with this impressive record in the East, were the same procedures not tried in Illinois and the other midwestern states where the chemical battle of the beetles is now being waged with such fury? We are told that inoculation with milky spore disease is "too expensive" — although no one found it so in the 14 eastern states in the 1940's. And by what sort of accounting was the "too expensive" judgment reached? Certainly not by any that assessed the true costs of the total destruction wrought by such programs as the Sheldon spraying. This judgment also ignores the fact that inoculation with the spores need be done only once; the first cost is the only cost. We are told also that milky spore disease cannot be used on the periphery of the beetle's range because it can be established only where a large grub population is already present in the soil. Like many other statements in support of spraying, this one needs to be questioned. The bacterium that causes milky spore disease has been found to infect at least 40 other species of beetles which collectively have quite a wide distribution and would in all probability serve to establish the disease even where the Japanese beetle population is very small or nonexistent. Furthermore, because of the long viability of the spores in soil they can be introduced even in the complete absence of grubs, as on the fringe of the present beetle infestation, there to await the advancing population. Those who want immediate results, at whatever cost, will doubtless continue to use chemicals against the beetle. So will those who favor the modern trend to built-in obsolescence, for chemical control is self-perpetuating, needing frequent and costly repetition. On the other hand, those who are willing to wait an extra

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season or two for full results will turn to milky disease; they will be rewarded with lasting control that becomes more, rather than less effective with the passage of time. An extensive program of research is under way in the United States Department of Agriculture laboratory at Peoria, Illinois, to find a way to culture the organism of milky disease on an artificial medium. This will greatly reduce its cost and should encourage its more extensive use. After years of work, some success has now been reported. When this "breakthrough" is thoroughly established perhaps some sanity and perspective will be restored to our dealings with the Japanese beetle, which at the peak of its depredations never justified the nightmare excesses of some of these midwestern programs. Incidents like the eastern Illinois spraying raise a question that is not only scientific but moral. The question is whether any civilization can wage relentless war on life without destroying itself, and without losing the right to be called civilized. These insecticides are not selective poisons; they do not single out the one species of which we desire to be rid. Each of them is used for the simple reason that it is a deadly poison. It therefore poisons all life with which it comes in contact: the cat beloved of some family, the farmer's cattle, the rabbit in the field, and the horned lark out of the sky. These creatures are innocent of any harm to man. Indeed, by their very existence they and their fellows make his life more pleasant. Yet he rewards them with a death that is not only sudden but horrible. Scientific observers at Sheldon described the symptoms of a meadowlark found near death: "Although it lacked muscular coordination and could not fly or stand, it continued to beat its wings and clutch with its toes while lying on its side. Its beak was held open and breathing was labored." Even more pitiful was the mute testimony of the dead ground squirrels, which "exhibited a characteristic attitude in death. The back was

SILENT SPRING IOO bowed, and the forelegs with the toes of the feet tightly clenched were drawn close to the thorax . . . The head and neck were outstretched and the mouth often contained dirt, suggesting that the dying animal had been biting at the ground." By acquiescing in an act that can cause such suffering to a living creature, who among us is not diminished as a human being?

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13 Biotechnology

FEW TECHNOLOGICAL INNOVATIONS worry people quite as much as the ones that we cat or die ones that we use as medications or the ones that wc employ in our sexual and reproductive lives. At die same time, few of us ever think of foodstuffs and drugs and medical devices—such things as seedless grapes, antibiotics, and birth control pills—as technologies at all. We need to think again, for if we define technology as something created by human artifice in order to alter the environment so as to achieve human goals, then, of course, these artifacts qualify. They don't exist in nature; they certainly alter the environment, both biological and social. Just as certainly, they were created by some human beings to satisfy their own and other people's needs. Indeed, one of the reasons why so many people worry about these kinds of technologies is that they seem to be altering our biological and social environments in disconcerting ways. N e w agricultural products—such as seedless grapes, hybrid corn, genetically engineered tomatoes—tend to drive old ones off the market and out of production. This means that genetic diversity is reduced and at the same time the uniform crops that remain are ever more susceptible to ever more devastating infestations. Our social environments change as well, sometimes dramatically. Antibiotics lower death rates, and this means that they increase the size of populations, leading, some say, to serious overcrowding and other ills of overpopulation. The various reproductive technologies, especially contraceptives and abornfacients, satisfy needs of some people that other people think ought to be left unsatisfied. 301

The history of the various twentieth-century biotechnologies thus raises all kinds of very knotty questions about the social and ethical impact of technology. It also raises fundamental questions, as we shall see, about whether we would be able to resolve such social and ethical paraodxes if we understood that history better.

Science, Technology, and Technoscience The history of biotechnology also raises questions about the differences between science and technology. If such things as seedless grapes, antibiotics, and birth control pills are technologies, dien surely the activities that created them—agricultural and medical research—must also be technological. Yet most of us, if asked, would say that the people who do agricultural and medical research are scientists. Scientists, we think, are the people who discover new truths by using the experimental method, while somewhat different people—what shall we call them? engineers? technologists?—using very different methods eventually apply those truths in order to create new products. We like to think of scientific research as the pursuit of somediing we call pure knowledge, and the pursuit of applications as somehow different, certainly a "less pure" activity. But do such distinctions really make any sense in the domain of agricultural and medical research, where the ultimate goal has always been some new product that will taste better, cure better, nourish better, flourish better, or work better? Early in the nineteenth century, science and technology were pursued by markedly different groups of people, and diis meant that the differences between the two pursuits were fairly obvious. Science was taught and practiced by educated people who had jobs in colleges, universities, and museums; technologies were used and produced by artisans who had received their training and practised their crafts in workshops and factories. Before 1 8 5 0 , if you had wanted a better mousetrap (or cast-iron stove or surveyor's sextant), you probably wouldn't have thought to ask a college teacher (or even a person educated at a college) for help. In this period of time, the distinction between science and technology was essentially a social distinction: one group of people,.widi one set of traditions, did technical work; another group of people, with a somewhat different culture, were scientists. As the nineteenth century wore o n , however, increasingly large numbers of people began to believe that if artisans learned science, technological progress would be accelerated, that if physicians and farmers learned the rudiments of biology, more diseases could be cured and more food would be produced. Many of the engineering colleges created in die nineteenth century (see Chapter 6) were founded on this set of new assumptions; the same assumptions guided the creation of agricultural colleges and new medical schools. The faculty had to be trained in the sciences; education was to be grounded in die sciences. No longer would a civil engineer get his training on a canal sift) or a railroad line, or a farmer at his father's knee, or a physician by apprenticeship. Instead, he (or occasionally she) had to

begin with the fundamentals of dynamics and mechanics, physiology and botany, anatomy and chemistry. A social and intellectual hierarchy was created by this new set of assumptions: science is "better" or "more fundamental" than technology; research scientists, dierefore, are "better" or "smarter" than engineers, or practicing physicians or working farmers. The person who works with his head is better than the person w h o works with his hands; die library and the laboratory are more honorable places of employment than the shop floor, the barnyard or die examining room. By the turn of the twentieth century, this distinction between science and technology—science discovers; technology applies; discovering is better than applying—had become a commonplace, which is why so many of us still believe it today. Yet it is a problematic commonplace. N o t surprisingly, engineers, farmers, and practicing physicians tend to resent die subsidiary position to which they arc relegated in this hierarchical model, feeling—widi some heat at times—that there is something especially challenging about the practical and clinical arts that the rather colorless word "applied" simply cannot convey. In addition, when scientists are applying for money to support their research, they tend to ignore die flattering distinctions at the heart of the model since philanthropists, industrialists, and governments usually want to know what technological payoff—not what truth—diey are going to get in return for their investment. Thus, after 1 9 4 5 , as scientific research became increasingly expensive and the scientists on the faculties of colleges and universities became increasingly dependent on outside funding for dieir research, die clear line that had once been drawn between science and technology began to look, to some people at least, a litde fuzzy. In addition, as research began increasingly to depend on complex pieces of machinery (for example, linear accelerators and electrorTrhTcroscopes) and machine-based processes (for example, gel electrophoresis and computer modeling), the old distinction between diose w h o work with their hands and those who work with their heads began to seem more than a litde dubious. Accordingly, some schol- ~\ ars have coined a new term, technoscience, to describe such enterprises as agricultural, medical, and military research, enterprises in which science and technology, investigation and application, resemble two sides of the same coin. The case studies in the history of biotechnology that are related in this chapter were thus chosen pardy to illustrate die character of die enterprise of technoscience and partly to illuminate some of the social and ethical quandaries diat the biologically based technosciences have created in our time.

Hybrid Corn Human beings have been practicing genetics for several millennia; all domesticated animals and plants—dogs, horses, grains, fruits—were devel-

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oped over the course of many centuries by selective breeding, deliberate attempts to take advantage of the natural variability of organisms: mating this ram with that ewe in the hope of getting lambs with thicker coats of wool; choosing seed from that row of wheat or diis patch of rye in the hope of getting a higher yield next season. Some of this selective breeding was done informally; a farmer tried to choose seed carefully for one or two seasons; a herder managed to isolate a few pairs out of the flock every spring. Corn is an easy crop on which to practice selective breeding. The tassel on the top of the stalk carries the pollen; the silks on the branches receive the pollen; the seeds, which develop after the pollen lands on the silk, arc the kernels attached to the ears. Many nineteenth-century American farmers were selective breeders. They let die corn in their fields pollinate freely, the wind scattering the pollen among the silks of many plants; after the harvest, they retained some ears to use as seed, deliberately choosing those ears that had very regular rows or exceptionally sweet kernels or that had come from stalks with a large number of ears. In the waning decades of the nineteenth century, some faculty members in the agricultural colleges began experiments in which they artificially pollinated corn to achieve selective breeding; they would detassel a row of corn or put paper bags over the silks and tassels; dien researchers armed with litde paintbrushes would control the transfer of pollen. Also by the end of the nineteenth century, a few seed companies had come into existence, often started by farmers w h o had found it more profitable to raise produce for seed than to sell it as food. Corn did not dien account for a large part of seed company business since most farmers used their o w n , homegrown corn for seed. As a result, the seed companies—witii one exception—had virtually no financial incentive to invest in experiments with artificial pollination. In any event, none of the corn-breeding experiments was particularly successful. Experimental seeds could not be guaranteed to produce a new generation widi the improvements the experimenters were aiming for; the corn that resulted was of variable quality, as variable as corn grown from openly pollinated plants. But the experimenters kept trying, and in the first decade of the twentieth century, their efforts were galvanized by new discoveries and new theories in the study of heredity. In 1 8 8 9 , an Englishman, Francis Galton, had concluded, on the basis of his studies of the heights of parents and children, diat the offspring of abnormal parents have a tendency to "regress toward the population mean." A decade or so later, a Dutch biologist, H u g o DcVries, discovered "mutations," major variations in a trait, which could arise spontaneously and be inherited. Both discoveries—that some unusual plants could breed true and that others would, after a generation or two of breeding, revert right back to their parental types—had important implications for breeders. So did the workoTa Czech priest, Gregor Mendel, w h o had published some papers about experiments that he had done on die artificial pollina-

tion of ornamental sweet peas. Mendel had concluded that some of the characteristics of a plant could be thought of as units, that some units (for example, the green color for seeds) dominated over others (for example, the yellow color for seeds), and that in inheritance these units operated independently and according to the mathematical laws of probability. In 1 9 0 5 , an American, W. S. Sutton, demonstrated that the probabilistic behavior of Mendel's units would make physiological sense if those units were located on the chromosomes in the nucleus of cells. A few years later, in 1 9 1 0 , another American, Thomas H u n t Morgan, was able to demonstrate diis phenomenon experimentally w h e n he determined that a particular unit character, eye color, was carried on the same chromosome that determined the sex o f the common fruit fly, Drosophila melanogaster. T h e MendelMorgan hypothesis (later to be called the gene theory) also had important implications for breeders because it suggested that stable new species, or at least stable new types, could be created by artificially and carefully crossing one type with another over the course of several generations. In addition, early in the twentieth century, two Scandinavian biologists, Hjalmar Nilsson and Wilhelm Johannsen, had isolated "pure lines" (Johannsen later called them genotypes) by inbreeding, or self-fertilizing, plants for several generations. Nilsson and Johannsen had been studying plants like wheat and oats, which normally self-fertilize, and they had discovered that, by carefully selecting the plants for several seasons, they could create seed stocks that would consistently breed true to type. Their stocks would not, to put the matter another way, vary with regard to one or two crucial characteristics. It remained to be seen whether careful crossing and subsequent inbreeding would have the same results in corn, which normally cross-fertilizes. T w o Americans, E. M. East and George Shull, created the techniques that would eventually solve the problem. They belonged to die first generation of American scientists w h o acquired a doctorate as part of their professional training. East had a doctorate in plant physiology from the University of Illinois. He became the director of the Connecticut Agricultural Experiment Station in 1 9 0 5 and began experiments intended to create (and cross) inbred (or pure) lines of corn—varieties of corn created, as Johannsen had done, by self-pollinating plants for two or three seasons. George Shull had received a doctorate from the University of Chicago. He began studying the inheritance of row patterns in corn (the number of rows of kernels per ear, a significant factor in yield calculations) in 1 9 0 6 , when he became an employee of the Station for Experimental Evolution in Cold Spring Harbor, N e w York. Looked at in one way, both East and Shull were scientists, and dieir experiments were purely scientific. East wanted to find out which corn characteristics were dominant and which recessive; Shull was trying to find out what were the unit characters in corn that would correspond to the unit characters (such as seed color and seed shape) that Mendel had identified in sweet peas. Both researchers were using corn in much the same way that

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Morgan had used fruit flies: as suitable medium through which to do experiments. Looked at another way, however, both East and Shull were technologists, pursuing very practical goals. Both were trying to ascertain how the rules of Mendclism could be applied to a plant that had enormous economic importance; they wanted to find out about the patterns of heredity in corn in order to breed better corn plants. This is one of the characteristics of technoscience: die pursuit of abstract knowledge and practical goals can be carried out simultaneously. Unfortunately, East found, season after season, as Galton had predicted, that his hybrid plants lost vigor after the first year; the seed produced by plants grown from hybrid seed did not have very high yields. When East left the agricultural station in 1 9 0 9 to accept a professorial position at Harvard, his inbreeding experiments were continued by several of his students. One of these men, Donald F. Jones, made a crucial guess about the reason why hybrids between two inbred lines lost vigor. If, as Morgan's experiments widi Drosophila had suggested, several different unit characters were linked on each chromosome, then the hybrids of two pure lines might not be vigorous because they were too pure—contained too few variations of each genetic unit. Why not try creating a hybrid of four lines, a cross between two hybrids, a double cross? Jones tested his double crosses in the growing seasons of 1916 and 1 9 1 7 and was delighted to discover that diey did not lose dieir vigor. He wanted to try crossing different pure lines and to test his hybrid seed under normal growing conditions in odier parts of the country. One of the farmers who volunteered to do this for him was Henry Wallace. Wallace was the scion of an eminent Iowa farming family who had shown considerable academic promise (and interest in scientific breeding) when a student at Iowa State University. In the early 1920s, he was managing his o w n farm and writing for an agricultural magazine, Wallaces'Farmer, which his grandfather had founded. Wallaces' Farmer encouraged what it called progressive farming—experimentation with new products and processes—and Henry Wallace practiced what he preached. Wallace planted some test plots of Jones's seed, but he also crossed the Connecticut seed with some of his own inbred lines until he had developed a strain of corn that was well adapted to the particular growing conditions in Iowa. In 1 9 2 6 , the Hi-Bred Company, founded by Wallace, began advertising and marketing the seed for this new strain, making it die first company to commercialize hybrid corn. The Hi-Bred Company was immensely successful. Wallace went on to be Secretary of Agriculture for two of Franklin Delano Roosevelt's terms and eventually a presidential candidate himself. Although Wallace was the first to commercialize hybrid seed, other companies soon followed; at least one of those companies, Funk Brothers, had actually begun experimenting with double-crossed seed before either Jones had published about it or Wallace had tried planting it. The Funk Brorhers Company had been founded in 1901 by Eugene Duncan Funk, who had attended the Sheffield Scientific School at Yale and had, even in die

1880s, developed an enthusiasm for scientific agriculture. In 1 8 9 3 , he had developed a new strain of corn (by crossing two varieties that had been developed by selection, not by inbreeding), and it was the commercial potential of this strain (called Funk's 90-day, to signify the length of time from planting to harvest) that led him and the members of his family to combine their resources so as to be able to sponsor more research. By 1 9 1 0 , Funk Brothers had a reputation as a research-oriented organization; it had as many people employed in, and as much land devoted to, research work as most agricultural experiment stations funded by the U S D A , and it had endowed a chemical laboratory at Weslcyan University, where the chemical analyses of its new strains was carried out. In 1 9 1 5 , the company hired J. R. Holbert as its chief agronomist. Holbert had just graduated from Purdue with a bachelor of science degree in plant pathology; he was immediately put in charge of the corn-breeding experiments. Between 1 9 1 6 and 1 9 1 8 , Holbert developed several pure lines based on Funk's seeds; between 1 9 1 8 and 1 9 2 0 he developed several single crosses of these lines—and a year later, a double cross. Small quantities of Pure Line Double Cross N o . 2 5 0 were being sold by Funk Brothers by 1 9 2 2 , but they did not actually advertise it in their catalogue until 1928, after Wallace had already demonstrated that there were a significant number of farmers who could be induced to try—and retry—this new type of seed. The path from Mendel's sweet peas to Wallace and Holbert's hybrid corn is pretty much a straight line, but determining where on diat straight line science stopped and technology began is not easy. Some people would say that Mendel and Galton and Johannsen were scientists because they discovered general principles, but that Jones and Holbert and Wallace were agricultural inventors because they were trying to create something that hadn't been there before: a hybrid, something unnatural, the result of human interference with the natural process of pollination. Unfortunately, Mendel was "doing technology" also. Mendel's hobby was gardening; like many serious gardeners of his day, he had been trying to create new varieties of garden plants by artificial crossing, that is, by hybridizing. So his goal was, at least in part, precisely the same as Wallace's and Holbert's—that is, technological. So was his procedure, for when he crossed the plants that resulted from planting yellow seeds with those that resulted from planting green seeds, he was creating an entity that had never existed before: a sweet pea hybrid. Thus one could say, widiout stretching the truth at all, diat Mendel discovered the scientific laws of dominance and independent segregation while in pursuit of a technological development program. The same kind of statement could be made about Francis Galton, w h o discovered the law of regression to die population mean while trying to figure out how to improve the human race, and about E. M. East, who discovered that corn has unit characters while trying to figure out how to help farmers increase their yields. In which case, we end up arguing diat scientific discoveries were made by people w h o were, despite their advanced training in die sciences,

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fundamentally technologists. And if we end up saying that, then what we have ended up saying is that from its inception genedcs has been not so much a science as a technoscience. The story o f hybrid corn thus teaches us that technosciences are enterprises in which people seek the truth about nature in order to transform it; conversely technosciences are also enterprises in which some truths about nature have been uncovered in die practice of trying to transform it. Virtually all of the corn grown in the United States today is hybrid corn, the product of artificial pollination of inbred strains. There are hundreds of varieties: some bred for high productivity; some for early, or late, maturation; some that are appealing because diey are sweeter and their rows of kernels more uniform. American farmers started making the transition to hybrid corn during the Depression, and completed the transition during World War II when the loss of so much farm manpower to the military made consistendy high yields imperative for individual farmers. By the early 1930s, the great commercial potential of hybrid corn had become very clear, and several seed companies began developing and marketing their own inbred strains from which double-cross seed could be derived. Both commercial experimenters and experimenters employed at universities and agricultural research stations had been in the habit of exchanging the seed of their inbred lines, but in the 1930s, as the profits from the use of that seed began to mount, die exchanges stopped. Some growers— bodi commercial and noncommercial—tried to patent specific crosses, and Jones tried to patent the idea of double crossing, but such claims were repeatedly rejected by thcTpatent office and by the courts. As a result, all die commercial parties have had to protect their financial stake in their lines by preventing die sale or theft of the seed from their inbred varieties. Hybrid corn looks and tastes much different from traditional varieties, but it is also very different socially and economically. Because it results from artificial, controlled pollination, farmers cannot produce die seed for hybrid corn themselves. Production of hybrid seed requires access to the seed of four different lines of inbred corn. That seed has to be planted on special plots and the silks have to be artificially pollinated. This has to be done afresh every growing season in order to produce hybrid seed for the next growing season. The seed from hybrid plants, openly pollinated, is degenerate seed; the next crop cannot be guaranteed to have anything like the same characteristics as the crop from which the seed had been drawn. Hybrid corn is dius implicated in the process by which small-scale farms, owned and managed by farming families, have given way to very large farms, owned by large corporations, managed by corporate employees. To grow hybrid corn, a farmer must be dependent on commercial seed companies—and must go to the added expense of purchasing seed. Thus, like petroleum-based fertilizers, petroleum-fueled tractors, electrically heated incubators, and on-line meteorological databases, hybrid corn is a technological system thatibas increased the capital expenses required for successful farm operations. The more capital that is required, the larger the plot

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Hybrid corn probably did improve yields and profits for many farmers as this advertisement suggests, but it also increased their costs since they became dependent on seed companies such as this one. (Courtesy DeKalb Genetics Corporation.)

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of land that needs to be farmed to make a profit—and the fewer people there arc who can afford to continue farming independendy. The end of family farming is an outcome drat the people who experimented with hybrid corn never intended; indeed, at least one of those people, Henry Wallace, would have abhorred it if he had lived to see it. Even something as apparendy natural as a succulent ear of corn-on-the-cob can be a technology, and like all technologies, it can have unexpected and unintended social and economic consequences. These unexpected and unintended outcomes are common features of virtually all technological changes, ones that we all must learn to appreciate. Because our social and economic system is complex—some would say infinitely complex—even the most sophisticated, best informed, thoroughly objective experts cannot predict all the consequences of a significant technological change.

Penicillin By the beginning of the twendedi century, most physicians in the United States and Europe had come to accept the germ theory of disease, the notion that some diseases are caused by microscopically small organisms. By the turn of the century, in fact, a new science had been born: bacteriology—the effort to classify these tiny organisms and to understand both their metabolism and their modes of reproduction. Alexander Fleming was a British bacteriologist; he was trained as a physician, but in the 1920s, he was employed as a medical researcher and teacher. Fleming was interested in developing therapies for bacterial infections by studying the ways in which white blood cells, leukocytes, destroy bacteria. Fleming's experiments were done on colonies of bacteria grown in laboratory dishes; the antiseptic effectiveness of the materials he was studying was gauged by the speed widi which bacteria died. One day, Fleming noticed diat one of the plates in his laboratory, which must have been accidentally exposed to the air, had some mold growing on it and—diis is the significant part—that in the area near the mold the bacterial colony was dying. Fleming was not particularly interested in the mold—he was experimenting with leukocytes—but he was interested enough to send a sample off to a mycologist (someone w h o specializes in the study of molds) for identification. Fleming also grew some of the mold in test tubes and injected some of the broth that developed in those test tubes into some animals in his laboratory to see whether it was toxic. When the animals appeared unaffected by the injections, he tried dropping a very weak solution of the broth into the eyes of an animal that had an eye infection—and the infection was gone in a few days. Satisfied that the fluid produced by the mold, Penicillium notatum, was both nontoxic and powerfully antibacterial, he published a short paper o n his researches in the British Journal of

Experimental Pathology'in 1929. Neither Fleming rior anyone else seems to have paid much attention to the antibacterial capacity o f Penicillium for the next decade. One or two

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biochemists tried to isolate the active chemical in the broth by distilling the broth or by evaporating it or by mixing it with various kinds of solvents, but all such efforts failed, and most knowledgeable people assumed that if the active chemical couldn't be isolated, then the antibiotic couldn't be manufactured in quantities large enough to do anyone any good as a medication. A decade later, however, two men renewed interest in the Penicillium moId.^Ernest Chain, a German-Jewish biochemist had fled his homeland and found a job in the medical research laboratory headed byHoward Floreyf an Australian-born professor of pathology at Oxford University. Florey and Chain, aware that Europe was headed toward war, feared that existing antibiotics would be inadequate. Florey's lab was also running a deficit; research on a promising new antibiotic was, he thought, a sure road to new government funding. On August 2 7 , 1939—as Hider's army was attacking Poland—Florey applied to the Medical Research Council (a British government agency that supported medical research) for a small grant to study Penicillium. Three days later, Britain and France declared war on Germany. The Medical Research Council was, however, also strapped for funds; most of the money that Florey and Chain needed to start their research eventually came from the'Rockefeller Foundation in N e w York} which was then one of the major nongovernmental underwriters of medical research. Penicillin (as the active ingredient in die broth produced by the mold was eventually called) turned out to be an exceptionally fickle substance. The mold had to be grown under absolutely sterile conditions since, ironically, it was susceptible to being killed by airborne bacteria. Extracting die active ingredient in die broth proved to be a major stumbling block as well since heat, acids, and alkalis—the usual extraction media—all seemed to destroy die bacteriolytic action of the chemical. By March 1 9 4 0 , after months of work and the cooperation of many people in the laboratory— biochemists, physicians, and technicians—Chain had only been able to produce one tenth of a gram of a brown powder from the fluid that had accumulated in hundreds of incubated dishes. Nonetheless, when this impure powder was tested in petri dishes, it proved to be immensely powerful at killing a wide spectrum of bacteria; a litde might go a very long way. When injected at various dilutions into laboratory mice, it proved to be, as expected, nontoxic. Then mice were deliberately infected with staphylococcus. Those mice that also received injections of penicillin survived; untreated mice were dead within a day. The entire laboratory staff was encouraged by the results. But the war in Europe was going very badly. In die first days of April 1940, in rapid succession, Norway, Denmark, Holland, and Belgium were attacked and overrun; over the course of the next month, British and French troops were pushed back to the sea, then forced to flee across the English Channel, leaving much of western Europe occupied by the Germans. As the mouse experiments were being finished and the results writ-

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ten up for a paper in the prestigious medical journal Lancet, men, women, and children were being killed and wounded by German bombs which were falling on London, just an hour's train ride from the Oxford laboratory. Penicillium continued, however, to be recalcitrant. The researchers calculated that they would need thirty grams of penicillin powder to treat a human being, but using all the dishes and staff and extraction apparatus at its command, the Oxford laboratory could only produce three grams a week. Florey tried to enlist the aid of British pharmaceutical companies, but they were all operating at full capacity to meet the demands of the by now very stressed British population."By turning virtually his entire laboratory into a penicillin manufactory, Florey was finally able, by February 1 9 4 1 , to accumulate enough of the powder to treat six patients—five of whom were cured of massive, life-threatening infections. Florey understood that penicillin had the potential to be a powerful weapon not only in the fight against disease but also in the fight against the Nazis; he also understood that there was no possibility of having it produced in sufficient quantities under wartime conditions in Britain. In June 1 9 4 1 , Florey and a chemist, Norman G. Headey, departed for the United States, taking samples of the mold with them. Headey had succeeded in developing an effective system for extracting penicillin from the culture broth—a crucial step in the process of turning a mold into a medicine. Headey's method was called back separation; it required the use of two solvents, die first to get the penicillin separated from die broth and the second to separate the penicillin from the first. Headey had also devised a system for measuring the potency of any batch of penicillin powder, a unit measurement (later called the Oxford Unit), which created a standard of measurement and a way of determining safe doses for individual patients. Florey hoped that he could convince some American organization—either the government or a pharmaceutical company—to begin growing large quantities of Penicillium notatum and to build a fairly large extraction apparatus. The question of who, if anyone, would be the first to patent penicillin or some part of the system for obtaining it from its natural condition had already been raised by Chain before Florey departed—and would be raised again, numerous times in subsequent years. Chain's father had been a chemical manufacturer in Germany; it seemed natural to him that the drug should be protected by patents, so as to raise money for the Oxford laboratory. Florey was dubious, and die physicians in charge of the Medical Research Council were adamandy opposed, believing that it was unethical for medical researchers to benefit in anyway from the commercial exploitation of their discoveries. And there the matter rested, temporarily, as Florey and Headey prepared to depart. Florey, Headey, and Penicillium received a very friendly reception in the United States; in short order, they had met with two people whose cooperation would turn out to be crucial. The first was Dr. Robert Coghill, an agricultural chemist, who was die director of die Fermentation Division of

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the Northern Regional Research Laboratory in Peoria, Illinois. Located in the middle of die farm belt, this laboratory, which was part of the United States Department of Agriculture, was devoted to the task of finding industrial applications for American farm products, particularly corn. Heatley and Florey had been told to see Coghill because the process by which Penicillium produces penicillin out o f the chemicals in its growing medium is a fermentative process, like the processes involved in making beer and wine, a living organism changing one substance into another. Coghill's staff was expert both at growing a variety of fermentative organisms and at devising means for extracting the chemicals they produced. That summer, Coghill and his staff were working with an abundant industrial by-product for which they were trying to find some use. Corn steep liquor was a sticky substance, a bit like molasses—the residue that remains when starch is extracted from corn. Within a month, the laboratory staff had discovered that if corn steep liquor was used as a growing medium, penicillin production could be increased tenfold. The other crucial person whom Florey and Headey met that summer was A. N. Richards. Like Florey, Richards had been trained as a physician, and also like Florey, he had made his reputation at die laboratory bench rather than the bedside. In 1 9 4 1 , he was a professor of pharmaceutical sciences at the University of Pennsylvania Medical School and one of the country's leading experts on the development and testing of new medications; he was also a scientific advisor to a number of pharmaceutical companies. That summer, Richards had just accepted a new appointment, as head of the medical branch of the Office of Scientific Research and Development ( O S R D ; see Chapter 11), a federal agency diat was to mobilize technical and scientific talent in the event of war. Richards was immediately convinced that penicillin would be crucial to the war effort, but there was little he could do to assist Florey and Heatley because the United States was not then at war and O S R D had no power to overrule, or even to influence, the decisions made by pharmaceutical companies. Several American pharmaceutical companies were already investigating Penicillium broth. Research scientists working for these firms had read Florey's report about his success with mice. As a result, there were several small research projects in the works in which efforts were being made to isolate and characterize the active ingredient in the broth, precisely what Chain was working on at Oxford. Florey and Headey had called on some of these industrial research laboratories, but, wishing to protect their investments, several of the companies had been reluctant to talk with them or to reveal very much about their research programs. Florey returned to Britain in October; Headey remained in Peoria. On December 7, the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. The next day, Congress declared war on Japan, Germany, and Italy. Five days later, Richards called a meeting in Washington to initiate a crash program for the production of penicillin. Coghill was present; he told the committee about the benefits of using

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corn steep liquor as a growing medium. Several representatives of pharmaceutical companies were present. Richards told them that under new wartime regulations they would not be prosecuted for violation of the antitrust laws if diey agreed voluntarily to pool all the information that they were acquiring about penicillin. He also assured them that no one would be allowed to take out a patent on the production process, or any part of it, for the duration of the war. Under new tax regulations, the companies were going to be allowed to plow back 85 percent of their profits into warrelated research. A scientific advisory board was going to be formed to suggest ways to increase penicillin production. The companies and the Department of Agriculture agreed tentatively to cooperate. The American war to conquer die secrets of the penicillin molecule had begun; the British researchers would join the effort, but the initiative, and most of the funding, was now American. The penicillin war proceeded on several fronts. The chemical engineers working for pharmaceutical companies designed systems for scaling up the incubation of the mold and the extraction of the powder. Within a year, several companies had opened massive "botdc plants," capable of handling 100,000 one-liter bottles at a time, each containing 2 0 0 cubic centimeters of corn steep liquor. Eighteen months earlier Florey's group at Oxford was obtaining one to two units of penicillin for every cubic centimeter of Penicillium it cultured; because o f the improved medium being used in the United States and because of the improved extraction systems that chemists and chemical engineers had developed, the bottle plants were obtaining 1,500 units for every cubic centimeter of culture. In March 1942, a woman in N e w Haven, Connecticut who was close to death from a staphylococcus infection became the first American to receive and be cured by commercially produced penicillin. A year later, the annual rate of American production was 2 billion units, and 100 patients had been treated. In the summer of 1 9 4 3 , the commanders of the Allied forces began making plans for a massive invasion of Europe, an invasion that was going to be both difficult and bloody. A m o n g other things that would be needed were vasdy increased supplies of penicillin. In the late summer of 1 9 4 3 , O S R D , the War Production Board, and the Medical Research Council decided to appoint a penicillin "czar" who would be given unusual powers to command materials and unusual resources with which to contract for research. Production soared: 6 8 4 billion units in the first half of 1 9 4 4 , 2 . 4 8 9 trillion units in the second, 7.5 trillion units by the time peace was declared in August 1945. The price also fell, from $ 2 0 0 to $35 per million units. (A few years after the war, with continued improvements in the production process, the price fell as low as $.50 per million units.) The OSRD had succeeded, bodi according to plan and beyond its wildest dreams; penicillin had saved more lives than any medication previously devised. All of the penicillin produced during die war was derived from a natural organism, but in the summer of 1 9 4 3 , OSRD had also begun an effort to synthesize the antibiotic ingredient. As a first step, biochemists had to

Pharmaceutical companies had to build entirely new facilities for manufacturing penicillin very quickly in the closing years of World War II. (Courtesy Library of Congress.)

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crystallize a pure sample of the active ingredient in the Penicillium broth so that they could determine what elements the penicillin molecule contained and h o w they were arranged. In the summer of 1 9 4 3 , a group of chemists working under Oskar Wintersteiner at the G. Squibb Company succeeded in crystallizing pure penicillin. Shortly thereafter, Roger Adams, a biochemist w h o was head of a very large research group at the University of Illinois and editor of a very prestigious biochemistry journal (some of his colleagues called him the pope of biochemistry), was put in charge of the synthesis program. Ten companies, with the largest and best organized research laboratories, were given government contracts to pursue research, and four academic chemists, w h o had previously had appointments at universities and medical schools, were recruited as consultants. Once again, the penicillin molecule proved recalcitrant; the synthesis of penicillin was not accomplished for another fourteen years. During die war years, the constituent elements of the molecule were identified and its structure was determined, but before anything more could be done, the war ended and the penicillin crash program drew to a close. Academic chemists left government service and returned to their laboratories and to the problems they had dropped when the war broke out. Most of the pharmaceutical companies lost interest in penicillin synthesis, pardy because their fermentation plants were in place and functioning well and pardy because it was clear diat no developments made during the war under OSRD contracts were going to receive patent protection. During the war, John ^heehan had worked on penicillin synthesis as an employee in the research laboratories of the Merck company. After die war, he returned to an academic position at MIT but continued to struggle with the synthesis of penicillin because he believed that, once synthesized, the penicillin molecule could be modified so as to be targeted against specific bacteria. Sheehan's research was funded pardy by MIT and partly by small grants from a pharmaceutical company. He discovered that it was relatively easy to create a linear molecule out of the constituent elements of penicillin, but that it was exceedingly difficult to get that molecule to form into a ring. He didn't solve the problem until 1 9 5 7 and die solution, by his account, depended on happening across an article in a professional journal that suggested to him that one group of chemicals—the carbodiimides— had just the characteristics that were needed to get the reaction to proceed. Sheehan's syndiesis opened a whole new era in penicillin research and manufacturing because, as he had suspected, the synthesis of die basic compound was just the first step in the creation of variations that would adapt an all-purpose medication to several specific situations. The history of penicillin reveals, just as the history of hybrid corn did, that there is a continuum—not a neat distinction—between science and technology. Florey, Chain, Fleming, Coghill, Headey, and Shcehan all succeeded in discoveritig.something, and each discovery had a specific practical meaning for human health. They were able to make these discoveries pardy because they were skilled at experimental procedure and pardy be-

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cause, due to their training in the sciences, they managed to make connections between various phenomena. Yet at each step of the way, each of those scientists was also exploring applications. Fleming injected some of the mold broth into mice to see if it would kill them; Florey injected it into humans to make sure that it was safe; Chain searched the literature to discover what other substances could be used in the same way Florey hoped to use penicillin; Headey knew he had to find a technique for purifying penicillin that could, potentially, be scaled up; Shechan took out a patent because he knew that more than one company was going to be interested in scaling up his syndiesis. The ultimate goal (indeed, in the case of Florey, Chain and Headey, the immediate goal) was to alleviate the pain and suffering that some bacteria can inflict on human beings. In addition, the history of penicillin reveals that, more often than not, successful technoscicnce requires a great deal of money, plus the cooperation of many different kinds of people and many different social institutions; technoscience, to put die matter another way, is very often "big science." Commercial production of penicillin and its artificial variants involved research physicians, biochemists, chemical engineers, and agricultural scientists. It also involved government agencies, private companies, philanthropic foundations, and universities. In addition, it was an international effort, which may have culminated in the United States but depended nonetheless on discoveries made by people trained in Britain, Australia, and Germany. Finally, technoscicnce depends on skillful managers—the people w h o make connections between all these individuals and institutions—as much as, or perhaps more than it depends on the individual genius of researchers. Some people object to big science precisely because of that latter feature, because it is a team effort rather than a solitary pursuit. Others people object to it because frequendy that team effort has been directed toward military or destructive goals; the atomic and hydrogen bombs, for example, and the intercontinental ballistic missile were all products of big science. The history of penicillin reminds us, however, that while there were many lives destroyed and put in peril by big science, dicre were also many that were saved and cased by the same kind of enterprise. Like hybrid corn, some of the impact of penicillin, and the hundreds of other antibiotics based on it, has been unexpected and ironic. Everyone w h o labored so mightily to create penicillin hoped that it would lower death rates, but none of the researchers anticipated that inexpensive antibiotics, distributed all over the globe, would so profoundly lower death rates that, in many places, severe overpopulation, overcrowding, and environmental degradation would result. Similarly, few of the researchers could have guessed that their work would profoundly affect familial relationships. Yet when physicians were able to use antibiotics to reduce the severity of such common and widespread diseases as pneumonia and tuberculosis, mothers and wives began to realize that their home-nursing duties were no longer as onerous as they had once been. The end result was that married

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women began to take full-time jobs outside dieir homes without fearing that they were direatening the lives of their children and husbands. Antibiotics were not the only causes of such complex social phenomena as overpopulation and married women joining the workforce, but they weren't insignificant causes either, and they were certainly unexpected. Finally, no one working in antibiotic research in the 1940s and 1950s envisioned what we now know grievously to be die case. Bacteria mutate. An antibiotic, by killing off old forms of a bacterium, makes it easier for newer, antibiotic-resistant forms to survive. Each new generation of bacteria can dierefore require a new generation of antibiotics—and in the lag time between the natural creation of the one and the artificial creation of the other, people can become dangerously, even fatally, ill. The bacterial environment, to put the matter another way, is profoundly altered by antibiotics, altered in ways that threaten human life. This means that in the antibiotic wars there are only temporary victories: hard-won to be sure, and probably worthwhile, but never permanent.

The Birth Control Pill Because it affected the most intimate and personal aspects of people's lives, the birth control pill (often referred to simply as the Pill) was, unquestionably one of the most controversial technologies of its day. Indeed, one indicator of its revolutionary impact is the fact diat people who were born after the controversy had died down have a hard time imagining what all the fuss was about. Like hybrid corn, the birth control pill was the product of what might be called litdc technoscience. No governmental agencies of any kind were | committed to its development, which meant that die number of people in- I volved was smaller and the amount of money spent was smaller. Aside from , that, however, the development of the Pill was as much a complex, managed technoscientific enterprise as the development of penicillin. In the latter years of the nineteenth century, several European medical researchers had become interested in certain chemicals that circulated in the blood. Apparendy, these chemicals, released by some of the body's internal organs, were able to affect the behavior of other organs; by 1 9 0 5 , the whole class of such chemicals had been given die name "hormone," from a Greek word meaning "to incite to activity." A series of experiments performed on laboratory and domestic animals in the early decades of the twenticteh century convinced medical researchers that some of these hormones affected both the development of secondary sex characteristics and sexual behavior: these substances came to be called sex hormones. By 1928,. two American physicians, George Corner and Willard M. Allen, having carefully studied all the changes that occur in mammalian ovaries during ovulation, discovered that there was such a substance in the corpus luteum (the vessel formed out of the follicle after an egg has been released). This substance seemed to prevent the ripen-

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ing of additional eggs; it also seemed to increase and alter the lining of the uterus to prepare for implantation of eggs and die commencement of pregnancy. They named this substance "progesterone," from the Greek words meaning "in favor of and "bearing offspring." Subsequently, researchers began to understand that the complex feedback relations between progesterone and three other hormones (estrogen; follicle-stimulating hormone, or FSH; and luteinizing hormone, or LH) governed the human menstrual cycle. They also reasoned that progesterone, because it prepared the uterus for pregnancy, might be used as a therapy for women whose pregnancies regularly miscarried or for women who struggled with other menstrual disorders. N o t surprisingly, some medical scientists also realized that, since progesterone prevented ovulation, it had potential as a contraceptive. Since women do not generally ovulate when they are pregnant and since maintenance of a pregnancy seemed to depend on maintenance of a certain level of progesterone, artificially establishing diat same level would actually prevent a pregnancy by preventing ovulation, by "fooling" the body into "thinking" it was already pregnant. Fuller Albright, an endocrinologist at Harvard Medical School, referred to this in 1945 as "birth control by hormone therapy." 1

Betwixt cup and lip there were, however, two enormous problems, one technical, the other social. Supplies of either human or animal progesterone were extremely limited. There was no known way either to extract large quantities of it from living tissue or to synthesize it, which meant, among other things, that the limited amount available was being used only to treat those patients who could afford the very high price. Furthermore, all published discussions of birth control—including professional research reports about contraceptives—had to be very carefully circumscribed because in many states dissemination of information about birth control was illegal. Albright hid his suggestion about birth control by hormone therapy in a technical article about treating menstrual disorders. If someone unfriendly to birth control had noticed what he had written and had brought the matter to die attention of the authorities, Albright could have been fined and jailed. Fortunately or unfortunately (depending on how one feels about the Pill), there were two women in the United States who had already done batde with the authorities over birth control and w h o had no reservations about continuing to do so. One was Margaret Sanger, a trained nurse who was devoted to the cause of birth control. Sanger and her sister had opened the country's first birdi control clinic in Brooklyn in 1916; both women had spent time in jail as punishment. By the late 1940s, Margaret Sanger was internationally famous for her efforts to spare American women from unwanted pregnancies. The Birth Control League, which she and several others had founded in 1 9 1 5 , had been transformed into the Planned Parenthood Federation of America, which coordinated the activities of more than two hundred local clinics. And the Supreme Court case that she had initiated (by having someone mail her a diaphragm from overseas) had been w o n in her favor, thereby voiding the federal laws that had made it il-

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legal to use federal facilities such as the postal service to disseminate birth control devices or information. Sanger regarded herself as a rebel with a cause; she could afford to continue to be rebellious because she had been left a considerable fortune by her second husband. As wealthy as she was, Sanger did not have enough money to sponsor a research and development project; however, by 1951 there was someone else w h o did. Katiierine Dexter McCormick was the heir to one large fortune (her father's) and one enormous one (her late husband's). As a young woman, she had earned a bachelor of science degree in biology from MIT (at a time when this was a very unusual diing for a young woman to do) and had become an ardent suffragette. During the 1920s and 1930s, she cooperated with Margaret Sanger by arranging to smuggle European birth control devices into this country so that they could be dispensed in clinics. As a young married woman, she had struggled tragically with her husband's collapse into schizophrenia—and had vowed not to have children by him. While he was still alive, she had gained control of his financial affairs and donated large sums of money to neuropsychiatric research. After he died in 1947, she sold several of their large estates and decided to spend her money on her own political causes. Birth control was one of them. In 1 9 5 1 , McCormick asked Sanger what, at that point in time, the birdi control movement most needed. Sanger responded that it needed a safe, inexpensive contraceptive drat would combat over-population and that women, rather dian men, could control. Sanger then introduced McCormick to Gregory Piacus, a physiologist, w h o was one of the world's leading experts on the mammalian egg. Pincus was the head of a private, not-for-profit scientific research institute, the Worcester Foundation for Experimental Biology, which he had founded with a colleague in 1 9 4 4 when he was denied tenure at Harvard. The Worcester Foundation had struggled along, doing biomedical research under contract to a variety of organizations (including Planned Parenthood), but in 1 9 5 1 , it was close to bankruptcy. McCormick made Pincus an offer: she would foot the bill if he would turn his foundation to the task of developing birth control by hormonal therapy. Between 1951 and 1 9 5 9 , Pincus acted, in fact if not in tide, as the manager of the Pill project. Unbeknownst to Pincus, in the early 1940s, a maverick American chemist, Russell Marker, had developed a process for converting a steroid found abundandy in some plants, sapogenin, into progesterone. Marker was a professor at Penn State at the time, and his research costs were being underwritten by a pharmaceutical company. When he discovered that one of the world's richest sources of sapogenin was a plant that grew only in the deserts of Mexico, Marker proposed to executives of the pharmaceutical company that they create a laboratory for extracting sapogenin and making progesterone in. Mexico. When they turned him down, Marker, aware of the great therapeutic demand for progesterone, prompdy quit his job and went into business with a Mexican entrepreneur. Eventually Marker was forced out of that company—and another tha* /

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he helped found—but his process (which he had refused to patent, making it available to anyone) created the foundation for what soon became a flourishing Mexican industry: the synthesis of various steroids, including progesterone, from desert plants. In 1 9 4 9 , needing an expert chemist, one of those companies, Syntex, hired Carl Djerassi, a young American who had recendy completed his doctoral dissertation. Within a few months, Djerassi had figured out a way to make cortisone, which was being used extensively as a treatment for arthritis, from the chemicals in one of those plants. A few months later, he took on another interesting project: making a version of progesterone that would work better than progesterone. The problem with synthetic progesterone was that it had to be administered by injection and in very large doses because it was degtaded and rendered ineffective when it passed through a patient's liver. Djerassi thought up several different ways to try modifying progesterone, and after several months, he found a molecule that proved to be highly active when fed to laboratory animals. After a physician tested the compound successfully on three women volunteers who were suffering from excessive menstrual bleeding, Djerassi applied for a patent on November 2 2 , 1 9 5 1 , on norethindone, an orally active variant of progesterone. In those very same months, Frank B. Colton, chief research chemist for the G. D. Searle Company, was also trying to alter the proge'sterone molecule so that it could be taken orally; Colton's successful version, to which Searle gave the trade name Enovid was not patented for another year and a half. In April 1 9 5 1 , when Pincus turned his laboratory to contraceptive research, he knew nothing about these developments; the first task he set his research associates, Min-Chueh Chang and Anne Merrill, was to find out whedier regular injections of progesterone would actually prevent female laboratory animals from becoming pregnant. N o t long after starting these trials, Pincus met a Boston gynecologist, John Rock, who was testing out a new therapy for infertility. Rock had been regulating his patients' menstrual cycles by administering doses of estrogen and progesterone every day for several months—deliberately fooling their bodies into thinking they were pregnant—and then taking his patients off the medication and letting their natural menstrual cycles return. In effect, Rock was already tcsdng a chemical contraceptive on human beings and had discovered—in pursuit of a cure for infertility—that it worked. Rock's work meant that Pincus could stop fussing with laboratory animals, but he couldn't know whether a chemical contraceptive would be safe for long-term use until he conducted a clinical trial. He also knew that he couldn't proceed to a clinical trial (and also satisfy McCormick and Sanger's requirement that the new contraceptive be cheap) until he located, or developed, a form of the hormone that didn't have to be given by daily injection. A series of inquiries to pharmaceutical companies yielded the information that two of them—Searle and Syntex—would be happy to sell him samples of die orally administered progestins that Djerassi and Colton had just recendy developed.

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Clinical trials of progestin could now proceed. Rock agreed that he would very quietly test oral progesdn on fifty women volunteers—Massachusetts state law still made it illegal to discuss birdi control publicly. Pincus announced the successful results (not one of the fifty women had ovulated) at a meeting of the International Planned Parenthood League in October 1955. A few months earlier, he had begun to try to locate a place where an even larger, longer-term clinical trial could be organized involving poor women (who were, after all, McCormick and Sanger's target population). Pincus and Rock also wanted women volunteers who could be counted on both to want a contraceptive and eventually to want to go off it since the two needed to be assured that the effect would be reversible and that subsequent babies would not be harmed by their mothers' chemical regimen. N o t surprisingly, they also wanted a place in which diere was no law banning discussion of birdi control. The places diey chose were Puerto Rico, Haiti, and Mexico City. The clinical trials were paid for by McCormick, but organized with the help of local physicians, nurses, and social workers who were already birth control advocates. Before the trials began, Pincus and Rock decided to use Scarle's progesdn, Enovid, because it appeared to have fewer side effects. While the Puerto Rican trials were in progress, they discovered that the reason for this was that several Enovid batches were contaminated with small amounts of estrogen; thereafter, all formulations of die Pill contained trace amounts of estrogen. By 1957, die team had carefully monitored 2 5 , 4 2 1 monthly cycles of pill administration and had calculated a contraceptive failure rate of 1.7 percent (by comparison, the failure rates for diaphragms in those years were 33.6 percent and for condoms, 28.3 percent). McCormick and Sanger were, of course, delighted. But the pharmaceutical companies, even Searle and Syntex, were hesitant. In 1957, Searle and applied for and received FDA approval to market Enovid as therapy for menstrual disorders and repeated miscarriages. T w o years later, 500,000 American women were taking die Pill every day, far more than the number that were thought to suffer from such disorders. Clearly some physicians knew, and had told their patients, that Enovid could be used as a contraceptive. Despite this unexpected phenomenon, the companies perceived that the political risks involved in marketing oral progestins as contraceptives were very great. The Catholic Church had clearly indicated that it would use the laws that were dien on the books, as well as its considerable political clout, against any effort to popularize birth control. Eventually Searle capitulated, both to Pincus's remonstrations and to its own potential profits. In 1 9 5 9 , it applied to the FDA for permissioji-to advertise Enovid as a contraceptive. The FDA took a long time examining the reports of all the clinical trials; this would be, after all, the first medication intended tq„be taken by healdiy people, who would be taking it for very long periods of time, possibly for decades. Finally, on May 1 1 , 1960,

Biotechnology

the Pill was formally declared safe for prolonged and regular use as a contraceptive. American married women were enthusiastic; so were many of their physicians. By 1 9 6 6 , researchers estimated that 56 percent of all married American w o m e n under the age of twenty and 25 percent of those under the age of forty-five were using the Pill, a total of at least 5 million women. The number of users continued to rise until the middle 1970s when some feminist groups became concerned about the relationship between the Pill and the incidence of other diseases, and an alternative contraceptive, the I U D , became widely available. By that time, however, as far as the opponents of birth control were concerned, the Pill had already done far too much social damage. In the decade between 1965 and 1 9 7 5 , a mulrifaceted revolution in American sexual behavior occurred. Scholars today debate the extent to which that revolution can be attributed to the oral contraceptive, but even those who doubt that it was the sole causative factor admit diat its role was far from insignificant. Ironically, the revolution turned out not to be quite the one McCormick and Sanger had anticipated. The most likely users of oral contraceptives turned out not to be poor women in undeveloped countries but fairly welleducated, middle-class women in relatively wealthy countries. The problems of overpopulation were not solved by the Pill. Even where governments were eager to try contraception, the difficulty of distributing the requisite daily doses and educating illiterate women about how to take them proved insurmountable. For reasons no one can quite explain, the oral contraceptive made it possible for Americans to discuss birth control, which had previously been a taboo subject in public and in polite conversation. Married women learned about it from dieir friends and began demanding it from their doctors. As more and more w o m e n discovered that there was a simple and reasonably safe way to control their fertility themselves, more were encouraged, and found the time, to assert diemselves in other fields of endeavor as well. And as they discovered that they could control their fertility without constraining their sexual desires, more and more women began admitting diat they had such desires and that they wanted to satisfy them. In short order, the rumor spread to unmarried women as well. Some traveled to distant cities and pretended to be married in order to get a physician to write a prescription; others soon learned which nearby physicians were willing to look the other way, ignoring the absence of a wedding ring. At one college after another, infirmary physicians began distributing the Pill to students who asked for it; at one Planned Parenthood clinic after another, physicians and nurses stopped insisting that patients demonstrate dieir marital status before being examined. In 1961, two leaders of Planned Parenthood in Connecticut informed the state police that they were going to publicly open a birth control clinic. When they were duly arrested and fined, they went to court to challenge Connecticut's restric-

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five law. Four years later, when the Supreme Court decided (in Griswold v. Connecticut) that the law was unconstitutional, it thereby invalidated all the restrictive state laws about dispensing birth control devices and information to married women. In 1 9 7 2 , when it resolved a related case (Eisenstadtv. Baird) the Supreme Court finally extended the right to obtain birth control to unmarried women as well. The rebellious generation that came of age in the late 1960s therefore reached sexual maturity at a time when birth control could be publicly discussed. In addition, all kinds of contraceptives were fairly easy to obtain, including one—the oral contraceptive—that did not interfere with sexual pleasure and did not require a man's cooperation to be effective. The two strongest disincentives to premarital sexual behavior, the fear of being disgraced and the fear of getting pregnant, had evaporated. Millions of young people, not surprisingly, took advantage of the opportunities duis presented. In the process, they totally transformed the nation's tolerance for explicit sexual discussion and for premarital sexual activity. This was an outcome that only a very few birth control advocates had ever expected, as completely unintended as some of die consequences of penicillin and hybrid corn. Even as venerable an institution as the Roman Catholic Church was rocked to its foundations by the oral contraceptive. When the 1960s dawned, the only birth control technique that die Church approved—-and only lukewarmly—was the rhythm method. American Catholics were not, however, unanimous in their adherence to this teaching and the advent of the Pill made them even more disgruntied. By 1 9 6 4 , some 60 percent of the Catholics surveyed in a national poll said that they were dissatisfied with their Church's position; and two-thirds of the women were willing to admit that they were using some contraceptive mediod other than rhydim; a third of those were using die Pill. All over the country, parishioners were putting pressure on priests to deviate from the Church's rules and in fairly short order the American bishops began putting pressure on the Roman hierarchy to pay attention to what was happening among their congregants. In the spring of 1965, Pope Paul VI convened an extraordinary meeting in Rome; twenty-one clergymen and thirty-four lay people (including three married couples) were asked to give the pope advice on whether die Church ought to change its position on birth control. After weighty deliberations, a majority of the commission concluded that it should. The pope took several years to consider those recommendations, but in 1968, in the encyc!icaLH»wffw«e Vitae, he announced that he was rejecting it completely/The pope's decision was a shattering blow from which, many Catholics argue, the American Church has still not recovered. The number of Catholics (both married and unmarried) using birth control continued to rise and the number attending mass began tt\plummet; 1967 was die last year in which the majority of American Catholics said that they believed diat the pope's authority was paramount.

By 1970, both birth control and abortion had become discussable—and protestablc—subjects. These demonstrators are gathered across the street from St. Patrick's Cathedral (Roman Catholic) in Manhattan in 1970. (Courtesy Tcmma Kaplan.)

Such was the power of sexual desire and of the little pill that finally made it safe for large numbers of women to consider succumbing. Like the research and development project that produced hybrid corn, it had been a relatively small undertaking, engaging the efforts of two wealthy and determined women, plus a handful of university scientists, a few pharmaceutical companies, a not-for-profit research institute, a few thousand volunteer patients, and one federal regulatory agency. Like the project diat produced commercial penicillin, it was managed by a few clever and persistent individuals w h o were able to manipulate several social institutions so as to achieve their objectives in a relatively short period of time—eight years from start to finish. And whatever its faults and its unintended consequences may be, most people whose lives were altered by the product of that technoscientific undertaking continued to approve of it.

Conclusion In recent decades, the power of biomedical technoscicnce has increased, partly because so many people believe that its past achievements were positive and pardy because new frontiers were opened by die technoscience that developed after James Watson and Francis Crick discovered the double helical structure of D N A in 1952. The same techniques of selective breeding that produced hybrid corn have since yielded new forms of many

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traditional grains and vegetables and garden flowers. N e w breeding techniques involving the micromanipulation and splicing together of chromosomes (called recombinant D N A techniques) have given us such new lifeforms as bacteria that can digest oil spills and fully ripe tomatoes that can be harvested mechanically. Manipulation of the same hormones that arc in the oral contraceptive now make it possible for physicians to harvest eggs from women's ovaries, die fundamental starting point for in vitro fertilization. And the accumulated knowledge about how to manage technoscientific projects has made it possible for molecular geneticists to create the Human Genome Project—an international effort, coordinating the activities of universities, medical schools, government agencies, and businesses—to identify the location and chemical structure of every active gene in the nuclei of human cells. Some people hope that when the genome project is finished it will be possible to cure every disease diat afflicts human beings; other people fear that when the project is finished technoscientists will be able to manipulate odier people as easily as they can now manipulate bacteria and grasses. The history of hybrid corn, commercial penicillin, and the birth control pill has several tilings to teach us as we contemplate the future that biomedical technoscience may or may not create. First, no new technology has ever been the unalloyed blessing diat its advocates say it is—or the unalloyed curse that its opponents insist it is. All technological changes have unintended and unexpected social and ethical outcomes, few ofwhich have been predicted by even tjjc best of experts. Second, since at least 1945 (and possibly earlier) even die best of these experts have not been disinterested. Because of the nature of technoscience, virtually all researchers cam their livings, in one way or anodier, on some goal-directed project, which means that they all have some vested interest in the polidcs and policies that will affect those projects. Finally, some people will be affected positively and others negatively by the outcome of any technological change; indeed, the same person can be affected negatively or positively depending on which of several possible social roles that person happens to be playing. Thus the most important, lessons that the history of technology can teach us are these: technology is complicated; so is life; so is the history that we create as we live our lives together. Those us w h o care about die future need to pay very close attention to these complexities. Every technological change has profound social and ethical consequences, and we cannot rely on experts to make wise decisions about diose consequences for us.

Note 1. Fuller Albright, "Disorders of the Female Gonads," in JohnH. Musser, ed., Internal Medicinerlts Theory and Practice (Philadelphia, 1945), p. 966, as quoted in Bernard Asbell, The Pill: A Biography of the Drug that Changed the World (New York: Random House, 1995), p. 18.

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Suggestions for Further Reading Bernard Asbell, The Pill: A Biography of the Drug that Changed the World (New York, 1995). Stuart S. Blume, Insight and Industry: On the Dynamics of Technological Change in Medicine (Cambridge, MA, 1991). Robert Bud, The Uses of Life: A History of Biotechnology (Cambridge, 1993). Lawrence Busch, William B. Lacey, Jeffrey Burckhardt, and Laura R. Lacy, Plants, Power and Profit: Social, Economic and Ethical Consequences of the New Biotechnologies (Cambridge, MA, 1991). Albert L. Elder, cd., The History of Penicillin Production (New York, 1970). Deborah Fitzgerald, The Business of Breeding: Hybrid Corn in Illinois, 1890-1940 (Ithaca, NY, 1990). Stephen S. Hall, Invisible Frontiers: The Race to Synthesize a Human Gene (New York, 1987). Jim Hightower, Hard Tomatoes, Hard Timer (Cambridge, MA, 1978). David Hounshell and John Kenly Smith, Jr., Science and Corporate Strategy: Du Pont R&D, 1902-1980 (Cambridge, MA, 1988). loel Howell, Technology in the Hospital: Transforming Patient Care in the Early Twentieth Century (Baltimore, 1995). Sheldon Krimsky, Genetic Alchemy: The Social History of the Recombinant DNA Controversy (Cambridge, MA, 1982). Jonathon Licbenau, Medical Science and Medical Industry: The Formation of the American Pharmaceutical Industry (Baltimore, 1987). Alan Marcus, Agricultural Science and the Quest for Legitimacy (Ames, IA, 1985). lean L. Marx, A Revolution in Biotechnology (New York, 1989). James Reed, From Private Vice to Public Virtue: The Birth Control Movement and American Society since 1830 (New York, 1978). John C. Sheehan, The Enchanted Ring: The Untold Story of Penicillin (Cambridge, MA, 1982). John Swann, Academic Scientists and the Pharmaceutical Industry: Cooperative Research in Twentieth-Century America (Baltimore, 1988). Arnold Thackray, Ed., Private Science: The Biotechnology Industry and the Rise of Contemporary Molecular Biology (Philadelphia, 1994). Trevor I. Williams, Howard Florey, Penicillin and After (Oxford, 1984). Edward Yoxen, The Gene Business: Who Should Control Biotechnology} (New York, 1983).